Hero
by Koch
Summary: A young man is thrust into the shoes of a hero and is forced to fight the Fifth Blight as one of the last Grey Wardens in Ferelden.
1. The Couslands

He was a son of the Cousland line, a noble second to the King Himself. In the off chance that the entire royal family was to die, his father would be on the throne. As such, it was his duty to conduct himself in the most proper manner possible. He was trained as a gentleman, respectful and polite. He answered every question with "Yes, Ser" or "Yes, My Lady". It was a duty.

He was trained as a true warrior, in the tradition of Ferelden's nobility. Unlike those soft Orlesians whose commanders sat in gilded chairs leagues away from the battlefield, Ferelden commanders fought alongside their men, often in the vanguard. He was no different. From a young age he'd practiced, mastering the arts of archery, swordplay, and carrying a massive shield into battle. He was taught of Ferelden's history, of the nature of magic, of great heroes and despicable villains.

He was given extensive training in how to manage a castle estate, how to lead forces into battle. His father was renowned for doing both, and thus made an excellent teacher. It was expected of him to know these things, if he should ever need them.

He mingled with others of his stature; guests come to visit with his parents at his mother's frequent salons. He knew by name many of Ferelden's upper crust, and knew many of their stranger quirks. He found himself often on the receiving end of affections from other Ladies his age, many of whom were eager only to inherit the Cousland name.

Rarely did he return these affections, finding his peers to be largely insufferable. Many were concerned with their treasuries, their fiefs, or other trivial matters. He was above and beyond such pettiness. He desired honor. Nothing more, nothing less. And often he would sit alone in the castle library, musing over the total lack of honor that pervaded the noble classes. He'd met plenty of veterans of the Orlesian Occupation, of which his father was just one, alongside Arl Howe. And yet, few enough of them seemed to recall that warrior spirit, that bravado, that ethos that called them to fight alongside each other for their very honor.

Oh that he was cursed to live in an age of peace!

It was childish, he knew, but he longed for warfare, for glorious battle. He longed for the chance to lead regiments of men on charges, to ride on one of the elite purebred horses of the nobility, to swing left and right, cutting down Orlesians or Chasind, or anyone that dared oppose Ferelden.

But no. He was born into an age of peace. Even the great Dragons were returning, having had centuries to wait out the hunters that drove them extinct. It was an age of good relations and good times. It was a boring age. And even as rumors of another Blight crept up from the south, even as father and Fergus prepared Highever's martial forces at the King's command, he knew that he was to remain behind and wallow in _peace_.

But it was his duty to do so. He was a son of the Cousland line, raised to be the pinnacle of nobility and to conduct himself as the shining example of integrity and honor, no matter what indignity he faced.

And so it was with great relish and a sense of adventure, as well as a pinch of secret revenge, that Lance Cousland hurriedly made love to one of the servant elves in the castle larder.

Her name was Marna, and she'd been whispering innuendos to him ever since she started at the castle. He had to admit that he shared her attraction, and the prospect of a roll with an Elf was altogether too exciting to pass up.

And so, with one too many coy whispers of "I will _serve _you while the Teyrn is away" Lance Cousland had given in to one of his baser instincts. The fact that they were doing it in the larder was just icing on the proverbial cake. Think if they were caught! The scandal!

She was a good sport, though, and was a full participant in their antics.

"Oh, My Lord is too kind!" she giggled, one leg on a nearby barrel.

"What sort of Teyrn could I be if I didn't allow those under me to share in my blessings?"

"I should say that My Lord is very noble to allow myself to be _under_ him."

"It is the majesty that is me."

"And what a _majesty_ it is."

He knew that Nan could enter at any moment, or one of the other servants could be ordered to get something from the larder, so Lance had to make it as quick as he could, much to his displeasure. He wondered if Marna wasn't getting an even bigger kick out of it than he. A noble, willing and ready for her? Maybe it was more common than he thought, but for the moment he allowed his ego to flare, thinking himself the only noble ever to have _bent_ a servant to his will, as it were.

In a few more moments he had to stifle her moans with his mouth to keep her from making too much noise, and she tugged on his black hair that he knew needed a trim. They finished together, the thrill of the whole scenario enough to bring them to climax faster than usual.

"Well, allow me to be so bold as to say that was an especially pleasing experience," said Lance. Marna giggled, lightly pushing him away so she could adjust her dress.

"Yes, My Lord, I've certainly never been so well taken care of. My Lord must certainly love his servant more often."

"That could be arranged," said Lance, smiling devilishly. "We'll have plenty of time when the Teyrn leaves. I might even find a reason to have you made my personal chambermaid."

"My Lord would be most generous," Marna said, straightening out her clothes and working to still her breathing. "I would very much like to _serve_ more vigorously."

"You can call me by my name," said Lance. "In private, at least."

"But what if I prefer 'My Lord'?"

"I wouldn't be opposed to that, necessarily."

"Well, then maybe I'll just save it for special occasions… Lance."

"I like the way that sounds," he said. It truly was a different experience to have her call him by name, and not just a little gratifying. He had to admit a subtle resentment of his station; forever cursed to be apart from society, to be lumped into the same category as the obnoxious nobles that characterized the rest of Ferelden's elite.

It was dangerous, exciting, and very satisfying.

"Are… are you not afraid of ruling the Teyrnir by yourself?" she asked, buttoning up her shirt. He shrugged a bit as he fastened his pants.

"No. It's hard to be afraid of something you've been groomed your whole life to accept. Truth be told, I am nervous."

"You are a great man," said Marna. She reached down for her underwear, grabbing them and holding them awkwardly. "I think you were born for great things."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," he said. He adjusted his shirt a bit, making sure it was comfortable. It wouldn't really matter in the long run, seeing as he always wore his chainmail. Marna stepped behind him, kissing him gently on the back of the neck and slipping her underwear into his pocket.

"I wish I could go with them, though," he told her. She reached up to adjust his hair.

"You aren't glad to be safe from harm?"

"Not when it's my family riding in my place. Besides, it's so damn boring being cooped up here at the castle all the time."

"That's what you have me for, My Lord," she told him. "I'm sure we can think of something to ease your boredom."

"That sounds fantastic."

They kissed once more before leaving the larder, Lance carrying his chainmail under one arm as he went. Nan was in the kitchen, apparently angered by some matter or another.

"There you are!" she declared, spotting Marna. "Where have you been? I've been scouring the entire castle looking for you."

"Oh, mistress, I was…" she hesitated, either unable to come up with a good lie or worried about implicating Lance in something less than savory.

"She was with me," said Lance. "In the larder. We were in the middle of some very _urgent_ business."

Marna was barely able to keep from giggling. Nan scowled at them both.

"Boy I looked after you since the day you came screaming out of your mother. You have some nerve to be so darn casual about it," she said. Lance grinned at her. Marna's cheeks turned red. He put one arm about her shoulders, and looked as bold and brazen as he could.

"Cut me a break, Nan," he said. "I've been in this castle so long you should be glad for me."

Before she could reply he leaned in towards Marna and kissed her, turning her an even brighter red even as she returned the kiss.

"What say you go easy on her," he said, even as he let his hand slide down to her waist. "I've taken something of a liking to her. Oh, by the way this is her last week in the kitchen."

He nodded curtly to Nan and gave Marna a kiss goodbye as he left the kitchen, putting the chainmail hauberk over his head as he went. Marna was probably going crazy in her head, astounded that he would be so open about something so scandalous. But she didn't know Nan like he did. She didn't realize how unwise it would be to tattle on the man that would be her boss for the next few months. Nor was it wise to hassle the servant Elf who would be sharing a bed with said man.

Lance Cousland continued down the castle's walled paths, nodding to guards and otherwise feeling on top of the world. He'd even forgotten that he wouldn't be participating in glorious battle.

"My Lord," said a guard, rapidly approaching Lance. "The Teyrn has requested your presence while he meets with Arl Howe."

"Very well."


	2. The Teyrn

If there was one thing Lance Cousland could simply not get over, it was the fact that every other member of Ferelden's nobility _chose_ to dress themselves as gaudy as possible. Certainly Lance had a number of shiny things to wear, though they were mostly for special occasions and even then he tried to get away without wearing them. He dressed for comfort first; a simple tunic and trousers, thank you. And chainmail to go over it.

His father, however, lacked that pragmatism, or at least obfuscated such a lacking. He was wearing a shirt that could only be described as "loud". Arl Howe was a little better dressed, awkwardly entering the main hall wearing simple travelling garb, having come all the way from Amaranthine. The fact that it was made from silk, however, still grated on Lance's nerves.

"Ah," said Bryce Cousland. "Here is my son. Pup, you remember Arl Howe."

"Yes, it's good to see you again," said Lance, giving a polite bow. He relished his excellent manners and took no little enjoyment from the stiffness with which Arl Howe reacted.

"And you. I see you've grown into a fine young man," said Howe. Lance smiled politely and nodded. "You know my daughter Delilah – you remember her, right? – has asked after you."

"Oh? I was quite under the impression that she didn't like me."

"Well, I'm sure that was many years ago. Time changes people. Perhaps you would like to meet her?"

"Yes, that would be quite nice," said Lance. He really didn't. She was just as snobbish as everyone else whose name came attached with a "Lord" or "Lady". She didn't like him, not really, and he couldn't say that he liked her very much. But it would be impolite to say such a thing to her father.

"Pup, I called you here to discuss something important," said Bryce. He was relaxed, joyful as was his usual candor, but the air around him seemed tense. He was definitely about to share something important. Lance wasn't quite sure if he was in the mood for it, especially considering his recent energetic activity with Marna, a thought that made him smile to himself.

"Yes, father?"

"Arl Howe's men are going to be delayed, so Fergus will be marching out ahead of us with the men," he said. "Howe and I will leave tomorrow. I'm counting on you to run things here until I return."

"I was hoping you'd changed your mind about that," said Lance. "I don't much like the idea of being left behind."

"Pup, we've been over this; I won't put both my heirs in jeopardy."

The side door opened, and in came another man, someone Lance had never seen before. Lance was familiar with most of the nobles of Highever and a few from Gwaren, but this man didn't look at all familiar. He might not have even been Ferelden.

He was dark-skinned, bearded. There were two blades on his back, and he moved with an unusual grace. He was older, with a professional stature that told of battle. If Lance had to guess, considering the fluidity of the man's motions, he'd say that the newcomer was an assassin. But what was he doing in Highever Castle? Father didn't employ assassins, did he? And if he did, to what end?

Lance wasn't naïve; he knew politics could be cutthroat, literally. But he'd never heard of father using a tactic so… underhanded. Father took pride in his work as a Teyrn and rarely stooped to the lows of political infighting. He left that to Arl Howe.

"Pup, this is Duncan. He's a Grey Warden, come to recruit Ser Gilmore," said Bryce. It took all the will he possessed for Lance to keep his jaw from dropping. He'd heard of the Grey Wardens, just as every schoolchild had. They were living legends, heroes. They rode Griffins and slaughtered the Darkspawn by the thousands.

"Son, Brother Aldous has told you about the Grey Wardens, right?"

"They're an order of great heroes," said Lance. Duncan smiled at that.

"Indeed they are," said Bryce. "Without Duncan's warning the King wouldn't have known about the Blight until all of southern Ferelden was overrun."

"You do us credit," said Duncan, in a smooth, wise voice. The man was one to follow, of that Lance was sure. Perhaps staying at the castle wouldn't be so bad after all.

"You didn't tell me there would be a Grey Warden here," said Arl Howe, eyes wide with surprise.

"It didn't seem very urgent at the time," said Bryce, shrugging in apology. Arl Howe stuttered a bit.

"A guest of this prominence deserves certain protocol. I find myself at a disadvantage."

"You're here to recruit Ser Gilmore?" Lance asked, finding himself suddenly jealous of the knight. Ser Gilmore had squired at Highever Castle for the better part of a decade, just a few years younger than Lance. He'd become something of a watchdog for his parents, making sure their bored son didn't get into too much trouble. Shaking him to meet with Marna had been a game unto itself.

"Yes, that is correct," said Duncan. "But if I may be so bold, I think your son would make an excellent candidate."

"That would be a little too bold," said Bryce. Lance was taken aback.

"Is there any reason I shouldn't join the Grey Wardens?" he asked, suddenly hurt that his father would deny him the exact opportunity he'd been craving.

"You did just get finished saying how the Grey Wardens are heroes, old friend," said Arl Howe. Lance was suddenly glad to have the otherwise insufferable man on his side.

"I've not so many sons I'd gladly see them off," said Bryce. "I'm flattered but my son stays here. Unless, of course, you intend to invoke the Right of Conscription."

"No, I've no intention of forcing the issue," said Duncan. He nodded to Lance, and he nodded back, a little disappointed but also proud that a Grey Warden would consider him.

"Pup, go tell your brother that he'll be riding without me. We have strategy to discuss," said Bryce. "And see to it that Duncan's needs are met during his stay at the Castle."

"Don't strain my abilities or anything."

"And don't strain my patience. Go and do as I've asked."

It was an embarrassing end to the conversation. The mighty Noble Warrior, slaying monsters by day and wooing the ladies by night, sent off to find his brother so he could do the _real_ fighting. What a shame.

He had barely stepped out of the main hall when Ser Gilmore – lucky, annoying Ser Gilmore – rushed to him.

"There you are," he said, out of breath. "I've been looking all over for you. Nan said you were in the kitchen not too long ago?"

"Yep. I was raiding the larder. So to speak."

"Did you happen to see your dog there?"

"No," said Lance. Although he wasn't exactly looking for his dog. The thought made him smile wickedly.

"He's tearing up the larder. Nan's in an uproar. Your mother sent me to find you so you can corral him; those mabari listen to no one but their master," said Ser Gilmore, scratching his red hair in frustration.

"Oh, he wouldn't hurt anyone."

"Nan's threatening to quit."

"She's being overdramatic. Besides, my father sent me on an important errand."

"Well, this comes from the Teyrna herself. You know what that means."

"Yeah, I do," said Lance. "All right then, let's go."

He took his time getting to the kitchen, a far cry from the rush to get into the larder a scant few minutes ago. He smiled at that, willing to bet that Marna was still there, flushed and without any cloth under her skirt. He grinned, something that had Ser Gilmore quite confused.

Sure enough, Marna was there, being chewed out by Nan for not getting the dog out of the larder.

"I have a good mind to skin both of you useless Elves," she declared. Poor Marna stood alongside another Elf, looking shamefully at the floor.

"We're very sorry mistress, but the hound won't let anyone near."

"I'm here," announced Lance. "Worry not."

"You! Not only do you steal away the servants for your secret romps but your hound goes and tears up my larder! I've got guests to feed!"

Ser Gilmore opened his mouth to reply, having heard the "secret romp" part. Lance kept him quiet by talking fast.

"I've got a handle on it," he said. "The dog will be gone in no time."

"He should be put down," said Nan. Lance was ready to fire back with a suggestion that _she _was in fact the one needing to be put down, but Ser Gilmore interrupted.

"We'll have it taken care of immediately," said Ser Gilmore. Lance nodded, holding his tongue. He pushed open the door, glancing immediately at the spot he and Marna had just used and unable to suppress a sigh.

Then he saw the dog. The mabari were a strong race of warhounds, bred exclusively in Ferelden and used in warfare. A mabari was a powerful ally to have. This particular ally, by the name of Ajax, was as stubborn and powerful as any of the mabari, unique in that he belonged to Lance and no one else.

"Hey," said Lance, causing the dog to immediately turn its attention to him. It wagged its tale and panted happily, seemingly proud of something he'd done. "What do you think you're doing?"

It could only bark in excitement and wag his stub of a tail. Proud indeed.

"What? Are you trying to tell me something?"

"He does look like he's trying to tell you something," said Ser Gilmore. "Wait, what's that?"

No sooner had he spoken than a large, fanged rat scampered out from behind a barrel. A sudden shock of disgust surged up Lance's spine as he imagined himself enjoying Marna with those things hiding just feet away.

He drew his sword bringing down into the first rat to approach. More came, incensed by the smell of their brethren's blood. Between the three of them, the score of rats stood no chance.

"These are giant rats from the Korcari Wilds," said Ser Gilmore. "This is just like the start of every adventure tale my grandfather used to tell."

"Yes, well," said Lance. He couldn't help but keep imagining himself and Marna while these beady-eyed monstrosities looked on. "Let's get out of here, shall we?"

"Nan, the larder is secure," said Ser Gilmore as they left. "It isn't anything to bother you with, but the dog chased a number of rats into there. We've handled it, though."

Marna apparently had the same reaction as Lance. "Oh, Maker! That's disgusting."

"I can think of things more disgusting to happen in a larder," said Nan. Lance could only chuckle helplessly as Ser Gilmore glared at him.

"And another job well done. I've got to dash."

He parted ways with Ser Gilmore, who had preparations to make before leaving for war. Lance didn't tell him that the Warden was going to recruit him. Lance was secretly glad to be rid of his nursemaid. Yet, he couldn't shake the feeling that Ser Gilmore was going for good, and that disturbed him. People died in war; that was the way of things. Lance thought he understood that, but suddenly the realization dawned on him.

Grey Wardens, Blights and war in the south? It sounded bad. Maybe it was.

"Ah, my darling boy," said Eleanor Cousland as he approached. She stood with her close friend Lady Landra, her son, and a lady-in-waiting Lance vaguely recognized. "I see you've taken care of that hound of yours."

Lance reached down to pet Ajax on the flanks.

"Yes, ma'am. All handled. Nan is throwing a fit, though; rats in the larder."

"Oh that's awful," said Lady Landra. "Once they get in they never get out, you know."

"Son, you remember Lady Landra," said Eleanor. Lance bowed to her.

"I believe we met at one of mother's salons," said Lance, leaving out the part where she drunkenly flirted with him.

"Yes. Didn't I spend half the salon shamelessly flirting with you?" she asked, returning the bow.

"Right in front of your family," said Dairren, her son.

"And I will note that I didn't get anywhere," Lady Landra said with a smirk in Lance's direction. Her risqué humor was part of her charm, he figured. "I believe you sparred with my son Dairren at the last tourney."

"And beat me quite handily as I recall, My Lord," he said. Lance nodded to him.

"You're being modest. You fought quite well."

He hadn't.

"And this is my lady-in-waiting, Iona," said Lady Landra, introducing a pretty Elf who looked incredibly shy. "Do say something, dear."

"It is an honor to meet you, My Lord. I have heard so many great things," Iona said, obviously embarrassed. She glanced in Lance's direction, smiling coyly and keeping her gaze at his shoes.

"Oh, don't look now, Eleanor, but I think she has a crush on your son," said Lady Landra. Iona looked even more embarrassed, if that were possible.

"Lady Landra!"

"Leave her alone," said Eleanor. "You'll turn the poor thing scarlet."

"I can handle my own affairs, thank you," said Lance. He smiled at Iona. "Perhaps we could continue this conversation in private?"

"I think that could be arranged," said Iona. Lady Landra giggled.

"You'll have this one married off yet," she said. Eleanor rolled her eyes. "I'm very tired, though, and I think that I shall retire to my room."

"We'll be in the study," said Dairren. Iona smiled at Lance as they went.

"It was lovely meeting you, My Lord."

"And you."

When they had left, Eleanor crossed her arms and smiled sardonically at her son.

"Pup, I didn't know you had an Elf preference," she said. Lance laughed in surprise.

"I was just being polite, mother," he said. "She is a nice girl, though."

"I was more referring to your preference for Elven servant girls."

He felt a stone fall in his gut.

"I assure you I have no idea what-"

"Don't bother," said Eleanor. "I know, everyone in the castle knows by now. You and that Marna girl have been trading looks for weeks."

She reached out, and Lance thought for a moment she might slap him in rage. The Couslands were known to be kinder to their Elven staff than other nobles, and that often came at a bit of a political disadvantage. Some people really didn't like Elves. Lance never knew the difference; all the Elves he'd met were hard workers and otherwise normal people. Marna was especially hard working.

She plucked a strand of red hair from his chainmail, left there no doubt by a pretty redheaded Elf hungrily kissing a noble.

"I…" Lance tried to work up a good excuse, to no avail. "Yeah."

"Look, you're a man now, and you can make your own decisions, but please try to use some discretion."

"I will in the future, mother," said Lance.

"And no more… in the larder," she warned. He felt his cheeks go beet red, just like Marna had when Nan caught them.

"I, uh, have to go talk to Fergus," said Lance. He tried to shuffle awkwardly away, but Eleanor stopped him.

"I love you. You know that, don't you?"

"What brought this on?"

"I remember when you were just a boy, and then I go and turn around and here you are; a fine man. And your brother and father are marching off to war."

"I have a bad feeling about all this," said Lance. Eleanor nodded.

"I know. Me too. I don't think I'll be able to sleep a wink until your father is back with your brother. We'll just have to keep ourselves occupied until the war ends. Now go tell Fergus goodbye."

"Okay, mom."

He walked away, feeling even more unsure about the whole situation and wishing to the Maker that he could go with them, to protect them. If they died, that would be one thing, but not knowing… not being there to help them…

Fergus' room was across from his own, and he shared it with his wife, Oriana, and his son, Oren. He'd met Oriana as a young man travelling in Antiva with father. She had only a slight accent, having spent most of her life near the Antivan border with the Free Marches. She wasn't an assassin, as far Lance knew.

Oren was squirrely, as most kids that age were. He was always looking for a chance to have great adventures or otherwise get into trouble. Lance could respect that.

"Are you really going to war, papa? Will you bring me back a sward?" Oren asked. Fergus knelt down to speak to him at eye level.

"That's 'sword', Oren. And yes, I promise I'll bring you back the biggest one I can find."

"Oh, I wish you weren't going," said Oriana. "I won't be able to do anything but worry while you're away."

Fergus glanced at the door, seeing Lance standing there.

"Here's my little brother, come to bid me goodbye," he said. "Dry your eyes, love, and wish me well."

"I can wait outside, if you like," said Lance with his cocky grin.

"Just wait 'till you have a woman, brother, then you'll understand."

"Who's to say I don't have one now?" asked Lance, stepping into the room to poke his brother in his armored ribs.

"I'm talking about a real woman, not a turn in the straw!"

"Fergus! Language!" declared Oriana. Oren waved his arms for attention.

"Do you like to play in the stable, too, uncle? I like to hide in the hay!"

"Oren, if I catch you with your clothes covered in straw I'll send you to Mother Mallol."

"Aw, but she talks _forever_."

"I'll say," said Lance. He didn't much care for religion, in any of its myriad forms.

"Honestly, you two," said Oriana. "Is there anything you won't say to corrupt my sweet little boy?"

"Uncle, will you teach me to use a sword?" asked Oren, smiling up at Lance. Lance had often been a playmate of Oren's, being the closest noble to his age. Lance didn't often mind, except when it interfered with his trysts with Marna.

"Sure! Let's go!" said Lance, knowing that Oriana would get so upset she'd start laughing. She was noble blood, through and through, and didn't know how to really take care of a problem.

"I think no," she said. "And don't encourage him."

"You'll see a sword up close real soon," said Fergus. "I promise."

Lance grinned at her, and then looked at Fergus. "I bring message from father: Arl Howe's men are delayed and you are to march without them."

"Oh, that figures," said Fergus. "You'd think his men were _trying_ to go slow."

Fergus reached for his shield and sword, slinging them both over one shoulder.

"I hope you weren't planning on leaving without saying goodbye to your dear parents," said Bryce, entering the room with Eleanor.

"Of course not, father, mother."

"I'll pray for you every day you're gone," said Eleanor. Lance rolled his eyes.

"He could use a good shield a bit more."

They ignored him, and Oriana prayed to the Maker for Fergus' safety, knowing full well that no one would be looking out for Fergus that wasn't marching in the mud.

"And please send some ale and wenches," Fergus added to the prayer. He saw his wife's face and hastily added, "For the men, of course."

"Fergus!" Oriana declared. "You would say this in front of your own mother?"

"What's a wench?" asked Oren, and Lance had to cough to cover his laughter. "Is it what you pull on to get the bucket out of the well?"

"Yes," said Lance. Bryce gave him a rap on the shoulder.

"A wench is a woman that pours the ale in a tavern, Oren," he said. "Or a woman who drinks too much ale."

Lance opened his mouth to add on, but found Oriana giving him a poisonous look. He didn't say anything.

"Pup, why don't you go to bed, now," said Bryce. "You've got a big day tomorrow and will need all the rest you can get."

"Yes, Ser," said Lance, bowing. "Good night."

Fergus followed him to the door of his room to tease him some more, and to say a few things he wouldn't be caught dead saying in front of anyone else.

"Getting sent to bed early?" he asked, poking Lance in the shoulder. Lance shot a self-sure smirk back at him.

"I have someone waiting for me," said Lance. Fergus laughed loudly.

"Is it that servant girl? The one who doesn't know the meaning of quiet?"

Lance started laughing, feeling as though his secret relationship with Marna wasn't secret at all. It actually managed to make the prospect even more exciting.

"We can hear you two near every night! We've told Oren you were moving furniture!"

"Oh, Maker," said Lance. They started laughing again, and shoved each other playfully. When the laughter halted they found themselves looking at each other seriously.

"I'll miss you, you know that?" said Fergus.

"I'll miss you," said Lance.

There was a tense moment between them, and Fergus reached out to put a hand on his shoulder. Lance gripped his elbow and squeezed lightly.

There were so many things they couldn't say to each other. Like how much they loved each other, how scared Lance was for Fergus to go to war, and how scared Fergus was for him to stay.

They were brothers, and though they couldn't say it, they knew it at heart.

"Take care of Oriana for me," said Fergus.

"Take care of yourself," said Lance.

And then he left.


	3. The Betrayal

It was late when he finally rolled off of Marna.

She'd come to his room after everyone else had gone to sleep, under the pretense of delivering the fresh linens he'd requested. She was such a sly one.

Lance had taken his conversation with Fergus earlier to heart and made sure to keep her quiet while they did it, either with a hand over her mouth or by kissing her. It was an unusual amount of fun.

They lay there for a while, resting in the afterglow. Rarely did they talk; there was little they had in common. She didn't want to share with him the intricacies of scrubbing a kitchen floor, and he didn't want to describe to her the agonizing monotony of being a noble.

On occasion they did find something to talk about.

"Do you think it is truly a Blight?" she asked. He had one arm draped over her side and was playfully nibbling her ear.

"I don't know. They say it is. The Grey Warden said so."

"Aren't you afraid? For your family, I mean?"

"Yes. And no. I just can't really see either Fergus or dad dying out there."

"I'm glad you're here," she said. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

He didn't say anything. What could he have said to that? They never talked about feelings or emotions; for him it was just enough to be with her. He liked her, sure. She was a great gal, playful, and she was just really fun to be with. Not mention the fact that she treated him well.

"Do you love me?" she asked.

He felt his heart skip a beat. He liked her, but he wasn't sure he loved her. How does one know that they love anyone? He certainly wanted to be with her, to continue their nightly sessions. He was attracted to her, and she to him. Was that not enough? Did it have to be muddied with talk of love and a life together? Besides, what life was possible for them? He a noble, expected to rule his estate as his father and his father's father had done; she a peasant Elf, second class and treated like dirt. What would become of the Cousland and the Knife-Ear?

"Do you love me?" he asked. He could feel her tense up, feel her muscles tighten and he pulled her close, comforting her.

"I think I do, yes. I really want to be with you," she said. "I don't think I could live without you."

"It doesn't bother you? The differences in our status?"

"If you love someone, why does it matter?"

"And you love me?"

"Yes. Do you love me?"

"I… Yeah. I do," he said. He kissed the nape of her neck, trying to redirect the conversation to something they would both find preferable.

"Can you say it?"

"Say what now?"

"Say that you love me. I can say it: I love you, Lance."

"Do you need me to say it? Can't I just feel it?"

He didn't want to break her heart. He'd never been in love, he was sure. And he wasn't in love with her. For as much as he cared about her, he just couldn't love her. Lying to her would just make it worse when they inevitably parted.

"I'd like you to say it. If you love me then why not?"

He was about to come up with a good excuse, a reason not to. Something subtle, yet dramatic. Maybe start fooling around with her again. He leaned down to kiss her, hand sliding up to her breast.

He was stopped midway by the sound of something crashing in the hall.

Ajax, who had until this point been sitting quietly on the big rug that dominated the floor, immediately set to barking, growling, and scratching at the door.

"What the hell was that?" Lance asked, cycling through the possibilities. Something fallen in the hall? Nothing that could have made such a racket. One of the guards, drunk out of his mind? That wasn't exactly a better option.

"Your dog is really growling," she said, sitting up and hugging the blankets to her chest. "Is something wrong?"

"Someone in the hall, maybe," said Lance, reaching down to dress quickly. He would just stick his head out and see who it was. "Stay here a minute."

Marna was already dressing, not wanting to get Lance in any more trouble. He'd almost reached for the door when a second, louder sound echoed through the stone hallway just outside. It was unmistakable: a door being forced out of its frame, wood splintering. And then a scream, cut terrifyingly short. Oriana!

Lance hurriedly kicked open his chest, pulling the chainmail hauberk over his head and quickly donning his sword. He turned to Marna, to tell her to stay where she was, but he never got the chance.

The door burst open, the frame shattering and sending splinters spraying across the room. An arrow followed soon after, and Marna fell backwards. Lance realized the horrible truth, even as he stared in disbelief.

Reacting on instinct, doing what he spent years practicing, he drew his sword, waiting for the first of the attackers to enter, wondering why the Elf had been there and not the boy they were after.

And he struck out, lopping off the head of the man before pivoting in place to send his blade straight into the archer's neck, twisting for effect.

At once he recognized the heraldry on their shields, the distinctive bear emblem. Arl Rendon Howe had betrayed his family.

Lance felt the sword drop from his hand, clattering on the stone floor. He stumbled to Marna, watching helplessly as blood oozed out of the wound in her chest. She was gone, dead before she hit the ground.

"Oh, Maker," he muttered. "I'm so sorry, Marna. I…"

He heard more men coming from the hall, and he felt himself overtaken by rage. Arl Howe had betrayed him, for no reason. He had spilled blood in Castle Cousland, had waited to ambush father when Fergus and his men had left.

"I… I will kill him," said Lance, cradling Marna's head. "I will kill him for you. I promise."

He stood, and took the sword.

He was sad at her passing, wishing that he had been able to protect her, to have been the one to take the arrow and not her. He couldn't reverse time, and as much as he wished her back to life, he knew the only justice to be found was at the tip of a sword.

And he stepped out into the hall, facing two more of Arl Howe's traitorous men.

He set upon them before they realized what was happening. Lance's training paid for itself with interest. He struck low and hard, impaling the lead man at the base of his plate armor. The second, a panicked archer, struggled to ready an arrow before having Lance's sword dance across his throat.

The door to his parents' room opened, and out stepped his mother, clad in a full set of leather armor. She had a bow slung over her shoulder, and looked like no woman Lance had ever seen.

"My son!" she cried, hurrying to his side. "I heard a scream and bolted the door. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, but I heard a scream from Fergus' room."

"Oh, Maker, no! What if they went into your brother's room first? Hurry!"

Lance went to the door, noting with a tinge of pain and fear that the door was ajar, the frame broken. He pushed it open; looking away even as he saw the bodies, smelled the blood.

"Don't look, Mother," he warned."It's too late."

"Oh, poor Fergus," she said, tears sliding down her face. "My poor Oren! Why would anyone do this? Did you see those shields? Howe's not taking prisoners; he means to kill us all! Why would he do this?"

"He attacks while our men are away," said Lance, blood burning hotter. He couldn't get the image of Oriana, dress torn and bloody, out of his head. Oren had his throat slit, and had probably died a long and painful death. He imagined Howe, his smiling face and the cordial manner in which they'd exchanged pleasantries. And then he imagined gutting the man.

"We have to find your father," said Eleanor, drawing her bow. "Quickly!"

"Stay behind me, mother," said Lance. He called for Ajax, and the three left their chambers, headed out to find Bryce, wherever he might be. And Lance hoped that there were a lot of Howe's men between him and his father.

"Do you hear that?" asked Eleanor as they walked out into the warm night air. The sound of battle echoed in the distance; metal clanging and men shouting. There weren't very men left in the castle, just a minor guard force. Fires burned in various places, lighting the night clear as day.

"The battle is down there," said Lance, he stepped forward, raising his blade, eager to kill every soldier ever to have come from Amaranthine.

"No," said Eleanor. "It is hopeless. You can't win."

"We can't let Howe win, either," Lance countered. "We need to take the fight to him."

"You will die if you do," said Eleanor. She reached out to touch his shoulder. "You must live. We have to find your father and make for the servants' entrance in the larder. We can escape there."

"Is there anything we can do? I can't sit idly by!"

"The Cousland Family Blade," Eleanor said. She reached for the key hanging from her neck. "It is in the treasury. We can't let Howe get his hands on it; it should cut off his traitorous head."

She gave the key to Lance, squeezing his hand. "Hurry son."

Lance ran down the ramp, sword at the ready. A serving Elf ran around the corner, heading up the ramp.

"They're everywhere!" he shouted. "The Castle is lost!"

"Have heart, man," Lance challenged. "Find your courage and fight!"

He wavered, looking over his shoulder at the approaching troops and back at his Lord and Lady. He drew his dagger.

"Here they come!"

Lance moved even faster, pushing past the Elf and confronting the first Howe soldier to approach.

In a blur Lance parried, reversed, and countered the swordsman, shoving his shoulder into the man to knock him off balance driving his sword into the attacker's belly, punching right through the iron plate.

His mother fired a single arrow, stopping dead a soldier that meant to kill Lance while he was busy with the first.

Ajax performed the most admirably, a trained mabari warhound. He leapt at the attackers, viciously gnawing on legs and feet, pulling them down to be torn apart while they floundered helpless.

More of Howe's men came, and Lance went to meet them. Even as his mother fired arrow after arrow at them, Lance was amongst them. He slashed left and right, lopping off arms and legs and heads. He cut away one soldier's leg and brought his sword down into his chest.

"Come on," he shouted, challenging every soldier to fight. There were none left, however, all having been torn to shreds.

"My son, the treasury," said Eleanor, pulling on his arm to turn his attention away from the carnage. She led him to the family treasury, where he unlocked the door and entered, sealing it behind them while they went for the armory.

He worked the lock, pushing the heavy wooden open to reveal a room stocked full of weapons and armor. He ignored the less fine implements of warfare, the ones that any guard on the wall had access to, instead heading straight for the Cousland family chest.

He opened it, reaching inside to withdraw a set of scale armor, specially designed for father's use in battle. He stripped off the chainmail and leather piece he wore, his mother quickly helping him to don the scale, fastening and tightening the pieces to fit his frame.

She reached into the chest, taking out the sheathed family blade, an ornate silver weapon, with an equally astounding scabbard.

"Here, take it," she said, handing him the sword. He threw off the older blade he carried, putting the pristine Cousland sword in its place. "You will need this, too."

She took a heavy leather satchel from the bag, swollen with coin. It was a significant portion of the family fortune, and something that Howe should not ever be allowed to have. He threw the satchel over his other shoulder, taking a moment to adjust to the weight.

"Your father must be at the gate," said Eleanor, taking a moment to regard her son in full armor. "We must go to him at once."

The gate was adjacent to the treasury, and none of Howe's men stood in the way. They had, however, managed to enter the gateway where Ser Gilmore led a valiant defense.

Howe's men didn't last long.

A mage, likely an apostate raised outside the Chantry's purview, fired magic into the defenders, searing right through armor plates and ripping up the men within. Lance sought her out. He drew the Family Blade, marveled at the clarity of it, and he struck out.

The mage tried to defend herself, raising up her staff to deflect the blow, only for it to be sliced neatly in half the blade continued through to its target, slicing her arm away. She screamed, reached out vainly. He cut her through.

A Howe soldier rushed him from behind, bring his sword down. Lance reacted, dropping to a knee and raising his sword to block the blow. He pushed it aside, forcing the blade to the ground and bringing his own up into the man's throat. He twisted the sword.

Another pivot and a swing and a soldier's head flew free. A quick slash and a man lost his sword along with his fingers. The Cousland Blade sang, calling upon blood and bone, cutting men apart. Armor did little to stop the blade, and Lance was at once rendered a God.

And then the battle was over, a half-dozen men at his feet. Blood stained his armor and his sword.

"My Lord," said Ser Gilmore, running to Lance's side and ushering his remaining men to brace the gate even as the enemy pounded at it. "I was afraid you had already fallen."

"It takes a great deal more to kill me, Ser Gilmore," said Lance. "Where is my father?"

"Last I saw the Teyrn was searching for you. He was badly wounded and went to search for you in the larder."

"He knew we would try for the servant's exit," said Eleanor. Ser Gilmore nodded to her, and looked anxiously at the gate, knowing it would not hold.

"Let me stay and help you," said Lance. Ser Gilmore shook his head.

"I could not. You must escape from here."

"Then come with us," Lance pleaded, working to fight off images of his father bleeding to death in some cold larder. Ser Gilmore shook his head again.

"If I did then you would not make it to the larder."

Something cracked against the gate, causing the men holding it to shout in surprise and push harder against it.

"Go," Ser Gilmore urged. "Now, before it is too late."

Eleanor tugged Lance away.

"Why?" he muttered. "Why is this happening?"

He thought of all those times he'd resented Ser Gilmore's presence, all those times he'd made a game out of evading him, trying to spend as much time without him as possible. Now he'd do anything to keep from losing him.

The door to the gateway shut behind them.

A small group of Howe's men were approaching, having sated their bloodlust in the servant quarters.

"There, get 'em," shouted their leader, a man wearing thick armor. Ajax shot out, leading the fight. He descended on one of the soldiers before he could react, tearing and ripping.

Lance wasn't far behind him, countering the leader's massive hammer with a tackle. He drove the knight to the floor, smashing his head with a deft kick. The knight's thick armor worked against him, keeping him pinned to the floor, unable to maneuver.

Lance sent the point of his sword into the knight's visor.

The other troops were dead, unable to stand between Ajax and Eleanor. Lance was breathing hard now, staring at the dead knight. If this was the battle he'd so long desired, he could live the rest of his life without swinging another sword.

They entered the kitchen, aghast to see poor Nan slain on the floor. Lance regretted having been so immature with her earlier, and wished he had the chance to go back. He couldn't believe himself; here he was, his castle burning around him, and he was wishing to go back to stop himself from saying something stupid.

"Come on," said Eleanor, guiding him to the larder where they could escape. "We have to go."

He stumbled into the larder, barely registering the smell of blood, or his father lying on the floor.

"Oh, Maker, Bryce!" Eleanor cried, rushing to her husband's side. He groaned and coughed, frothy blood at the corners of his mouth.

"I… tried to make it here, to find you," said Bryce, holding his side, blood seeping out from between his fingers. "Howe's men found me first. Almost did me in right there."

"Father, come on, we have to go," said Lance, pleading with his dad, refusing to believe for an instant that Bryce Cousland could die. It was impossible.

"I wouldn't survive the standing, I think," said Bryce. He groaned, leaning heavily against the wood pile on the far end of the larder. "You have to go."

"I did my best to get him here," said Duncan, suddenly behind them. He was sheathing his sword, covered in the blood of Howe's men. "I'm afraid I was too late, however."

"Thank you, Duncan," said Lance. "Can you help us escape?"

"Our fates are tied," said Duncan. "Arl Howe has seen fit to order his men to kill me, too. I will help you."

Bryce gurgled blood, struggling to thank Duncan. "Duncan, you are in no way indebted to me, but if you could save my wife and son, I would do anything."

"I will, My Lord, but I must ask something in return."

"Anything."

"The Blight in the south grows in severity every day. The threat of the Darkspawn demands that I not leave without a recruit to bolster our numbers."

"I understand," said Bryce and he looked at Lance, eyes growing distant and drooping.

"I can't," he replied. "I have to find Fergus, to take revenge on Howe."

"The Couslands have never shirked their duty, my son," Bryce told him, struggling with every word. Lance knew that he was dying, that his wounds were deep, though he refused to accept that fact. "The Blight threatens everything, everywhere. You will become a Grey Warden and fight the Darkspawn, and then you will take vengeance."

Lance stared in disbelief. The irony of it all; just hours ago he was entertaining thoughts of becoming a Grey Warden only to be forced into it.

"Will you join us? Will you become a Grey Warden?" asked Duncan. Lance closed his eyes tight.

"Yes," he said. "I will do it."

He felt a lump in his throat, and tried to swallow it. His hands were shaking and he had the terrible feeling that he would never see his parents again.

"Go, my son," said Eleanor, cradling Bryce in her arms. "I will stay with your father."

"No, mom, come with me," said Lance, trying to keep from crying. "We can escape."

"You'll have a better chance without me, and I am not leaving your father's side."

"Eleanor," Bryce mumbled, wincing in pain.

"Hush, Bryce. I will kill every bastard that comes through that door to buy them time, but I am not leaving you."

Lance didn't know what to say. All at once he'd lost more than he'd ever known was possible. He was all alone now.

"We've lived a good life," said Eleanor. "We've done all we could. Now we leave it to our son."

Somewhere distant, a great gate crashed, and shouts and clashing steel echoed. Heavy boots sounded throughout the castle, and Lance knew they'd lost.

"We must go now," said Duncan, pulling on Lance's armor to get him moving.

"Go, my son," Bryce said, coughing as he did. "Go; make your mark on the world. We will always love you."

And that was the last time he ever saw his family, ever again.


	4. Ostagar

Lance traveled mute. Duncan said few words to him, something to encourage or to give him a little information about what was occurring elsewhere.

They went south, away from Highever, which was even now being reclaimed as the Teyrn of Rendon Howe. He couldn't bear to think. Every time he did it brought him to tears.

"We will meet the King and his army at Ostagar," said Duncan, even as they neared. "It is an old Tivinter fortress built to keep the Wilder Folk from invading the northern lowlands. It is an old place, and where we shall make our stand."

The Tivinter Imperium of old had spread across Thedas, as far as southern Ferelden, which was an accomplishment in itself. The first Blight, however, had consumed their empire and left naught but ruins until all that remained of Tivinter was just a shadow of its former self. Ironic, considering that the first Darkspawn were Tivinter mages.

Ostagar itself was just one of countless hundreds of decaying ruins, a single tower of aging stone in the center of crumbling buildings and overgrowth. The Korcari Wilds spread to the south from Ostagar, a wild, untamed swampland where barbaric Chasind folk ran wild and sometimes raided nearby villages for captives. They were likely all but exterminated by the Darkspawn.

They arrived late in the day, the sun beginning its slow descent over the distant hills. Lance had never met King Cailan, though he'd heard plenty of him in the courts he'd been forced to attend by father.

And he'd give anything he could to be in one of those courts with him right now.

The man himself was something of a… well, "dork" was the only appropriate descriptor. The man wore shining gold armor and was flanked by a pair of his royal guards. He was grinning, even as he blew away an errant strand of blonde hair.

"Duncan!" he declared, approaching as one with great purpose. He clasped the Grey Warden's hand and squeezed tightly. Upon noticing Lance standing there, frowning to himself, Cailan came alight again. "Is this one of your new recruits? Ah, you look quite familiar, though I don't think we've ever had the pleasure of meeting. You're Bryce Cousland's youngest, yes? Pleasure to meet you."

He vigorously shook Lance's hand, and he returned the greeting as politely as he could.

"Yes, your brother arrived ahead of you with Highever's men but we are still awaiting your father."

"He won't be coming. He was killed recently," said Lance, choking. Cailan looked aghast.

"Killed? What are you talking about? Duncan, what's happened?"

"Arl Howe has revealed himself a traitor," said Duncan. "He attacked Castle Cousland while its troops were marching."

"Oh, Maker! Surly he doesn't think he could get away with it!"

"Had he killed us he would have told you any story he chose," said Duncan. Cailan shook his head, looking sincerely at Lance.

"I promise you that as soon as we've defeated the Darkspawn here I will lead my army north and bring justice to Howe. He will pay," said Cailan. "You'll probably want to inform your brother of this, but he's out in the field, I am afraid, and won't be available until after the battle."

"Thank you, your Majesty, but I am in no hurry to tell him," said Lance. Cailan nodded.

"For the moment, you will have to vent your grief on the Darkspawn. It's little solace, but it is what's available."

"And of the Darkspawn?" asked Duncan. "Have there been any developments?"

"No," Cailan said, and he stepped away. "We've won three battles already, but alas, no sign of the Archdemon. I'm beginning to think that this isn't even a real Blight."

"You sound disappointed," said Duncan.

"Oh, I had hoped for a grand battle, like in the old tales. Full of glory and honor and valor. Riding alongside the Grey Wardens, facing a corrupted god. I'll just have to settle, I suppose," Cailan turned to them and retook his cheerful demeanor. "Well, I suppose it's time we parted ways. Loghain desires to bore me with his 'strategies'."

Cailan turned and marched off with his guards, leaving Duncan to stare at his back and shake his head.

"So now you've met King Cailan," he said to Lance.

"He didn't seem to think much of the Darkspawn."

"Yes. I find it worrisome. But I can't ask him to act on my request alone."

"Why not? He seemed to think highly of the Grey Wardens."

Duncan sighed. "Not enough to wait for reinforcements from Orlais. I he wants Ostagar to be _the _decisive battle of this Blight."

"I was rather under the impression that there had never been a decisive battle in any Blight. Or at least not one so long as the rest of the world wasn't involved."

"Indeed there hasn't been. But Cailan seeks to make one, and he has thus far been victorious. I just can't help but feel that there is something we are missing."

"What next? About me being a Grey Warden, I mean."

"You must prepare for the Joining," he said. Lance gave a questioning look. "It is a ritual that we all must take part in to become a Grey Warden. There are three other Wardens here, two recruits and Alistair. Seek them out and then come to me when you are ready."

With that, Duncan walked off across the bridge that spanned the gorge bisecting the Korcari Wilds. The army's encampment was at the base of the ancient Tower of Ishal. There the army and its various followers went about the business of preparing for the upcoming battle. The Chantry had set up a number of stations for the men to receive the Maker's Blessing and for their priests to spill whatever inspirational drivel could be derived from the Chant of Light.

A blacksmith worked diligently on readying arms and armor damaged in previous engagements and the tents of Teyrn Loghain and King Cailan sat apart from the soldiers proper.

Father had always talked admirably of Teyrn Loghain, a hero of the previous war with Orlais in which father had fought. He was something of an icon to the rest of Ferelden, and the father of Queen Anora. By all counts he was an admirable man.

Lance drifted, still in shock, throughout the camp, listening to the prayers and the soldiers' tales. There was a sense of tension in the camp, and Lance wondered if it was always so. The irony, of course, wasn't lost on him; here he was in the exact place he'd always dreamt of being, desiring to be anywhere else.

Ajax had followed Duncan across, and patiently waited nearby the man, staring passively at the kennel containing the bulk of the camp's mabari.

"So are there any last-minute wishes I could fulfill before the battle?" asked a shifty-looking man standing near the blacksmith. "You never know; that pretty face could be adorning some Darkspawn spear this time tomorrow."

The woman he was talking to looked positively uninterested and did her best to shove past him.

"Oh well," said the man, watching her rear as she departed.

"Hey," Lance said to him, worried that this might be one of his fellow recruits.

"Would you happen to be the other recruit Duncan brought with him?" he asked. Lance winced. "I'll take that as a yes."

"My name's Lance," he said, extending his hand to shake. The guy had the look of a cutpurse about him, and the sleaziness of a common bandit. They shook and Lance couldn't help but notice the dirt caked in the man's fingernails.

"Daveth. We were betting on who the last recruit would be and it looks like I lost."

"What were you expecting?"

"Me? A comely lass with golden hair and terrible eyesight," he said, and broke into laughter. Lance tried to laugh to be polite. The man was just unnerving.

"Say, do you know much about this Joining Ritual?" asked Daveth. Lance shook his head. "Well, I was sneaking around last night and overheard two of the Grey Wardens talking. I think they plan to send us out into the Wilds."

"Sounds entertaining," said Lance. Daveth shrugged.

"I don't know. All this secrecy is making my nose twitch. Oh, well. Nice meeting you. I guess I'll go find Duncan, then."

He walked off, with all the grace of one who spent his life chasing skirts and stealing bread. Lance wondered if he was truly honored to be joining the Grey Wardens. He stumbled around a bit more, taking in the sights of camp.

"This here's a Darkspawn," said a soldier standing before a crowd of other soldiers. Lance pushed his way through to the front; curious to see what the creatures of nightmare looked like. "This little bugger is called a 'genlock'."

It was ugly, that was sure. He had it stretched across the ground, brackish blood spilling from a wound across its gut. It was short, too. Dwarf height. Its skin was mottled green-black, and it had a mouthful of needlelike teeth and dark, slanted eyes.

"Gross," he murmured.

"They only get worse," said an elderly lady behind him. He must have looked more than a bit confused at her presence; she extended her hand and introduced herself.

"My name is Wynne. I am one of the Circle Mages brought here by the king."

"Oh. Lance, pleasure to meet you. Have you seen many of those… things?"

"More than my share, yes. Mostly stragglers, but they are all dangerous in any number."

"I've never fought one."

"You're one of the Warden recruits, right? I think that will soon be rectified. Come nightfall, you'll be fighting more Darkspawn than you ever thought you'd see."

"Sounds lovely. Excuse me," he said and pushed away from the crowd. He wondered if he'd have the stomach to fight the Darkspawn after all. Ser Jory, the other recruit, was attending a small service where a Chantry priestess was giving the Maker's Blessing.

"Are you the other recruit?" asked Lance, approaching the man. He nodded and shook hands.

"I am Ser Jory," he said. "I was a knight under Arl Eamon of Redcliff. Excuse me for saying so, but you have the bearing of a man who knows how to fight. Are you a soldier?"

"I am no soldier, but my father trained me to fight."

"Oh, then are you a nobleman? It's an honor to meet you, My Lord."

Lance didn't like that. He was a noble no longer, seeing as Arl Howe was currently occupying Highever. He felt a tinge of rage.

"Do you know anything about this Joining Ritual, or have you been left in the dark just as I?" Jory asked, oblivious to Lance's growing anger.

"No. Daveth said we might be going out into the Wilds."

"I don't like all this secrecy. I thought my showing in tournament would have been enough. I have a wife with a child on the way back home."

"Well, I guess we'll find out later, huh?"

"Yes, I suppose we will. I'll go rejoin Duncan, now."

"I still have to meet this other Grey Warden. Alistair, was it?"

Jory nodded and went about his way.


	5. Alistair

Whatever expectations Lance had of Alistair, whatever he imagined an actual Grey Warden would look like, it didn't jive at all with the real deal.

Alistair was what could be described generously as a "doofus" and not-so-generously as a "blithering idiot". He seemed strangely aloof and had made an obvious effort to keep his hair looking neat and shiny. He was arguing with a mage when Lance approached, and from the content of their banter Lance gathered two things: first, that Alistair was a Templar in a past life; and second, that Alistair was incapable of having a serious conversation.

The mage, apparently fed up with Alistair and the Revered Mother, on whose behalf Alistair was delivering a message, left, leaving Alistair to smile self-satisfied at Lance.

"Isn't it lovely how the Blight manages to bring people together?" he asked, the sarcasm in his voice quite evident.

"You're a very strange man," said Lance, deciding that being a Grey Warden obviously didn't entail some great increase in maturity.

"You're not the first to say so," he said. "I am Alistair. You must be the new recruit."

"Lance. Pleasure to meet you."

"Ah, yes. That was the name. I suppose you're eager to start the Joining, yes? Have you met the other recruits?"

"Yes, I have."

"Tell me; have you ever seen a Darkspawn?"

"No. Have you?"

"The first time I fought one, I wasn't ready for how monstrous it was. It's scary, and I'm not too eager to fight another."

"Right. Thanks for the pep talk. What say we head out now?" he asked. Alistair chuckled and gestured for Lance to lead on.

Duncan was standing with the other recruits, and Ajax, under the ruins of some sort of Tivinter shrine. A large bon fire burned before them, made from the scraps of trees cut down to facilitate the army.

"Good," he said when Lance and Alistair had arrived. "Now that you're all here, we can begin. You will be going out into the Korcari Wilds."

Ser Jory and Daveth looked at each other nervously, neither of them eager to face the Darkspawn horde by themselves. Lance was indifferent; what did it matter to face the Darkspawn when there was little left to return to?

He wondered what story Howe had cooked up to explain away the usurpation. Maybe he would spin lies of treason, make his family a black mark amongst the nobility. Would anyone believe it? His family had long been the foremost amongst the nobility, on par with even the legendary Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir. Maybe that would just make it easier to believe; the Couslands rose so high and only sought to climb higher.

"You will have two tasks upon entering the Wilds," Duncan told them. "First, you must acquire three vials of Darkspawn blood. It should be easy enough to get."

He handed them each the vials, giving Alistair a few spare in case the rest should be damaged.

"And the second task?" Lance prompted. Duncan looked him in the eye, apparently able to understand his eagerness.

"There is an old Grey Warden outpost, abandoned many years ago when the Grey Wardens could no longer afford such outposts. Within it still is a chest. In the chest are a number of Grey Warden documents. You are to retrieve them."

"What are these documents?" Lance asked. It was a reasonable question; if he was expected to stick his neck out for something, he deserved to know what.

"They are ancient treaties promising support from the various peoples of Ferelden. We don't know if they will be useful in the coming Blight, but it doesn't hurt to be certain."

"Get the blood and the treaties," Lance repeated, trying to clear thoughts of his family from his mind. "Got it."

They turned in unison, the four of them heading for the gate to the Korcari Wilds. He was nervous, he realized. It finally sank in. He was to be a Grey Warden. He was to be a hero. It rang hollow, somehow. Maybe not having a real choice in the matter made it less of an honor.

Regardless, he stepped out into the humid swampland of the Korcari Wilds, suddenly overcome by a sense of determination and eagerness to get the job done. He didn't have time to whine about his life, not when there was work to be done, and there was no way he was going to fail.

"Maker's breath!" Ser Jory declared, pointing I the direction of what had to have been a battle. A number of soldiers lay about the forest floor, slaughtered in exceedingly gruesome ways. It was strange and very telling about the army's ability to secure a perimeter if a battle with Darkspawn could occur just outside the camp's gate.

"They didn't last long," Lance said, stepping forward to inspect the corpses. He didn't really know what he was doing; he just pretended to be a gifted tracker. He knew enough to tell that they'd been killed with dull blades, though.

"This was an entire scouting party," said Ser Jory. "Trained soldiers slaughtered by the Darkspawn. We should go back. This is too dangerous."

"Oh don't say you've lost your stomach already," said Daveth. "I thought you were supposed to be some sort of knight."

"I am!" said Jory. He sighed. "It's just that I have a wife heavy with child back home. I don't understand why I need to continue to be tested. Haven't I proven myself already?"

"Overcoming these dangers is part of becoming a Grey Warden," said Lance. He was a bit ashamed that someone like Ser Jory could become a knight in Ferelden. Surely he was a good man, but that was something more suited to a baker or a carpenter, not a soldier. He didn't have the guts for dirty work.

"Listen," said Alistair. "All Grey Wardens can sense Darkspawn; it's how we kill them so well and it's why I was sent along. If any sneak up on us, we'll know ahead of time."

"See, Ser Jory? We might die but at least we'll know about it," said Daveth with a wry smile. Lance rolled his eyes.

"That's… reassuring?" Jory said, looking even paler. Lance gestured for them to move on, eager to be rid of their whining.

The forest was dangerous, that was well-known. Animals of the most ferocious sort called it home, and with the Blight coming up through the forest only a madman would dare travel through it. Even the native Chasind folk had fled. Rumors of Witches were frequent in these parts, and that the place was host to a whole brood of them. Lance reflected on the fact that he'd never seen a forest that didn't have some sort of rumor about haunting or monsters.

Regardless of rumors, however, the Darkspawn were a very real threat. The soldiers that had been ambushed were strewn all about, gruesome trophies taken by the Darkspawn as part of their eldritch rituals. Parts of the forest were given over to the Taint; covered in blisters and pulsating pustules. It was sickening.

Cattle, animals, and other creatures had been abducted by the Darkspawn and just like their human trophies were displayed in grisly manner. The Darkspawn seemed to enjoy taking large tree branches and forcing them through the hides of their prey, leaving them pinned to the ground.

They passed under a log where three men were hung.

"Oh, look at that!" Alistair declared as they passed. Lance looked up, expecting all the while for one of the men to still live. "That just seems so excessive."

"Seems to be how the Darkspawn operate," Lance whispered.

He realized then how little he knew of the Darkspawn. He'd heard all the child's tales, as had any of Ferelden's children. The Darkspawn were nasty monsters capable of indescribable acts of horror. They'd toppled the greatest Empire ever known, and they'd come back three more times since. But what were they?

Aside from the dead Genlock, he'd never seen one. He'd certainly never fought one, and he had never seen them operate in large units. Did they know tactics? Were they capable of flanking and outmaneuvering opponents? Did they fight in formation? Every instinct told him that they should fight as a single unstoppable wave, like a horde.

"Hey," said Alistair, tapping his shoulder. "You may want to look right."

"Why?" Lance asked, turning his head to see. He wondered if Alistair could, if even for a second, maintain a somewhat professional demeanor. Especially considering that a clutch of Darkspawn was bearing down on them.

The soldier had said that there were many types of Darkspawn, though what exactly they were Lance didn't know. He supposed that he always imagined the Darkspawn as a singular mass, a sort of great encroaching shadow spreading fire and death.

It was hard to think of a Blight in terms of individual Darkspawn. But here they were.

Five of them.

Alastair reacted fast, impressing Lance enough to forgive the casual way with which he had warned them of the approaching Darkspawn. He struck out with his shield, sending one Genlock reeling, falling back to his brethren. With his sword he rended the head from a second Genlock.

Something else came at them, though, something taller than even a full grown man. It wore armor, however shambolic, and carried a deadly curved blade. It was a monster, to be sure. Lance felt himself stunned in place. Even as it approached he could barely believe the sheer horror of the thing.

It had a facsimile of a human face; scars, crooked teeth. It didn't look real. For all the dreams of slaying monsters and being made a hero, this was just all too terrifying to be real.

And then he reacted, training and instinct taking over where his mind had failed him.

His sword shot out, impaling the creature through the gut, shattering its rusted armor. It shrieked into his face, still peppy. So Lance slammed his head forward, connecting his forehead with the monster's face.

In a single fluid motion he pulled his sword free from the creature's stomach, swinging in it in a wide arc, and beheaded it. A second monstrosity followed closely behind it. It fell in another swing of his sword.

A third, this one faring better than the others. It struck out with its curved blade, meaning to cut Lance down the middle. He parried, blocking the sword with his and pushing it to the side to give himself an opening. With a twist he was behind the creature, drawing his belt knife. The thing turned to fight him, trying to slam him with a shield that looked to be made from scrap.

Lance fell forward, letting the shield fly over him uselessly. He struck out with his foot, connecting with the thing's knee, feeling it fall away beneath his boot. It shrieked in pain, desperate to fight and kill. If it had any mind, if it knew what was happening to it, it didn't show.

Lance raised his sword high over his head, and brought it back down on the beast.

The whole fight had taken a minute, quick and deadly, just like Lance had been trained.

A number of Darkspawn lay slain, dead at the group's hands. Alastair took a large leaf from a nearby plant to wipe the blood off his blade.

"You didn't get any in your mouth, did you?" he asked. They all shook their heads. "That's good. It'll kill you, you know."

He inspected the corpses of the two large Darkspawn Lance had killed. He kicked at one, watching the blood spill out of its cracked skull.

"They call these Hurlocks," he said. "Ugly little bastards. You did the world a service. Fill up your vials and let's go."

Lance reached numbly for the glass vial he'd been given. It was a miracle that it hadn't cracked during the fight. Cautiously, remembering the toxicity of Darkspawn blood, he filled the vial with red fluid from one of the Hurlocks.

The vial was filled more than halfway and he hoped it would be enough. The body reeked like nothing he'd ever known.

It reminded him of the time he'd snuck into the castle larder to get a quick bite to eat, only to take a mouthful of rotten cheese. He'd nearly vomited right then and there, but held it until he got outside, not wanting to make a mess that he'd have to clean up…

And then the sorrow hit him again. He'd never be able to sneak into the larder to eat; he'd never be able to pull Marna into the library for a quick kiss. Oh, poor Marna. Why had the Maker allowed _her_ of all people to be murdered by that bastard Howe? It wasn't right. She deserved to be alive, to be happy somewhere. She deserved better. She deserved more.

"Are you okay?" asked Alistair. He'd evidently noticed the would-be Warden's demeanor, the slumped shoulders and the far-away look.

"Yeah," he answered. "I'm fine. We've still got work to do."

And with that, he was steel again.


	6. Morrigan

The Darkspawn hadn't "infested" this part of the woods yet, apparently. There were a few more groups of Darkspawn in the woods, having torn apart groups of unfortunate travelers, not just a few of whom were armed. Ser Jory remained unnerved by the encounter, and Daveth was constantly cracking wise to keep his composure.

Lance couldn't say as though he wasn't afraid but how did this compare with having to leave behind his entire household to the mercy of Rendon Howe? How did it compare to watching your lover bleed out on the cold stone floor? It didn't. And despite how dangerous the Blight was said to be, he couldn't get the images of his dead family out of his head.

So he did as the king had recommended and vented his grief, his anger and his hatred on the Darkspawn. He killed them. He ripped them apart. He used his sword and his blade and he massacred them by the dozen.

He was good at it. Even Alistair seemed surprised by the ease with which he slaughtered them. He waded into them, slashing left and right, rending heads and arms and legs. The Darkspawn were fearless, though, and gladly charged him to their deaths. Jory and Daveth did well, or as well as could be expected, but they lacked the same affinity for killing Darkspawn.

The chest with the treaties they were after was left in an old Tivinter ruin, the remains of some city or an extension of the outpost Cailan's army currently occupied.

Lance pulled his blade out of a large Hurlock, one that wore cleaner, newer armor than the others and wielded a greatsword with two hands. It had been a bit of a challenge but had died just as readily as anything else that could be killed.

"The treaties are inside?" he asked Alistair, whipping his sword through the air to rid it of blood.

"Yes. Or they should be. Our Grey Warden seals should have kept them safe but you never know."

"Right then."

Lance sheathed his sword, taking time to catch his breath. He was practically caked with Darkspawn blood, though had luckily managed to keep his mouth shut. The others were equally soaked with spatters and flecks. The Darkspawn blood had a strange texture to it. Visually it didn't look any different from human blood, except for the abnormal thickness that seemed very similar to congealed blood. But upon touching it, rubbing it between your fingers, you could feel something not too dissimilar from sand in the blood.

But all that was tangential to the task at hand.

Lance glanced around, making sure the surroundings were relatively secure. If it was one thing that had been drilled into him through years of training in strategy, it was never to feel confident. It looked secure, or as secure as it could be, given the situation. He stepped in, hand kept at his side cautiously.

The chest was only a few feet ahead, but he could see already that they'd come for nothing. It was smashed, wide open. Someone, some countless years before them, had evidently bashed open the container in the hopes of finding something worth selling or eating. He wondered if parchment paper tasted like anything.

He pushed away a smashed hunk of ceramic chest, clucking his tongue at its emptiness.

He was about to tell Alistair that they'd come for nothing when he heard a noise. It was subtle, caused by someone who was taking great pains not to be seen. He whipped his head around, trying to find the source. Nothing.

It was curious.

Then he heard her.

"Well, well," she said. In the instant before he turned he was able to deduce one very important thing about this woman from the sound of her voice: she was knockout beautiful. And he was right. "What have we here?"

She was gorgeous. Black hair, golden eyes, fair skin. He found himself captivated and imagined the various dirty things that could be done with a woman like that. Made especially easy by her clothing, or rather the lack thereof. She was dressed in what might generously be called "robes" but amounted to little more than a scarf draped over her womanly features. Her skirt seemed to be made of strips of random cloth, with black trousers underneath. She was adorned rather haphazardly with feathers and armbands likely culled from the wildlife.

Her beauty was immeasurably enchanting. And therein was the problem.

She was no doubt a Witch of the Wilds. A dangerous apostate of whom he'd heard countless tales. She had probably just returned from having eaten a baby or strangling a farmer's livestock. She didn't look outright evil, but looks, as Lance had recently learned, were deceptive. And if you let your guard down for a moment you die.

She stepped out from the corner she had hidden herself in, and Lance kicked himself for not checking the site more thoroughly.

"Sloppiness is folly," his father would tell him, and the thought made him angry. This _Witch_ was challenging him! She was going to kill him, and then use his corpse for whatever macabre meals she ate in the ass end of nowhere.

"Are you a vulture, I wonder?" she asked of no one in particular. She had a particular grace about her; confident, with a little swagger. In one hand she held what was undoubtedly a mage's staff, balancing it lightly in her palm. "A scavenger poking amidst a corpse whose bones have been long since cleaned? Or merely an intruder, come into these Darkspawn-filled wilds of mine in search of… easy prey?"

The use of the word "prey" told volumes about this woman. She was a predator, not to be trusted. It would be too easy to see just a pretty face, to throw off the lessons of her bravado-laden speech. She was a trickster, a manipulator. He wouldn't be drawn in.

She took several careful, yet disturbingly confident, steps towards him, stopping just a few feet shy of him. She was exceedingly foolhardy to get this close to someone she didn't know, someone who was armed and to who she was obviously antagonistic. But then, considering that she had literally just appeared out of nowhere, it might just be a serious confidence in her abilities.

"Well? What say you: scavenger or intruder?" she asked. Her voice was musical, he realized. Rhythmic, playing on each syllable like a song. In a bad way, of course.

"Just how exactly are these _your_ wilds?" he asked, slowly taking a defensive stance. He didn't know how she would react, but he wanted to be ready. He'd only fought one mage in his life, the one Howe had sent to his castle, but he was in no hurry to fight a second, stronger apostate.

She laughed at his reply, and answered as though it should have been plainly obvious to anyone in attendance. "Because I know them as well as only one who owns them could. Can you claim the same?"

The question was rhetorical. If he could, he wouldn't be here. She sauntered around him, walking so that her shoulder would bump roughly against his. He imagined amongst the animals in the wilds it would have been some game in power. He stepped aside.

"I have watched your progress for some time," she said, boldly putting her back to them. Her body language spoke volumes. She was very confident, she believed herself immune, she had no idea how well-trained he was nor did she think it mattered. Or maybe it was something else? Something far more subtle than that? Did she even know?

"'Where do they go,' I wondered, 'why are they here?'"

She stepped up onto a collection of smashed stone rubble, appearing to be taller than any of them, and just as imposing. She crossed her arms, and looked extremely sexy doing so. It was puzzling. She was such a lesson in paradoxes and contradictions.

But Lance reminded himself not to think too hard about it. It boiled down to one simple fact: she was a bad guy, and in their way.

"And now you disturb ashes that none have touched for so long. Why is that?"

"Don't answer her," said Alistair, suddenly near Lance. He'd forgotten about the existence of the others, and found himself embarrassed. The Witch must have done something to his head, maybe cast a spell. "She looks Chasind. And that means others are nearby."

She laughed derogatively at him.

"You fear barbarians will _swoop_ down upon you?" she asked, raising her arms and bringing them down for effect. She was pretty, he noted. Clean. Strange that a Witch would take such good care of herself. But appearances were deadly deceiving.

"Yes," said Alistair, apparently unamused. "Swooping is _bad_."

Lance let his hand slide behind him, fingertip just grazing the hilt of his knife. He wasn't sure if it would be enough, but he was fairly sure he could take her out with it from here.

"She's a Witch of the Wilds, she is!" declared Daveth, suddenly backing away. He was a simpleton for sure. "She'll turn us all into toads!"

She laughed again. "'Witch of the Wilds'? Such idle fancies, those legends. Have you no minds of your own?"

She smirked to herself, and then pointed at Lance. "You there, handsome lad. Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine. Let us be civilized."

Lance hesitated. This was a dangerous game he was playing. She could easily trick him, and, if Daveth could be believed, turn him into a toad. But if he didn't answer, she would think him weak, and probably get even bolder.

"I am Lance," he said. By reflex, he added, "A pleasure to meet you."

"Oh! That _is_ a proper civil greeting, even here in the Wilds. You may call me Morrigan."

Morrigan the Witch. He felt himself simultaneously repulsed and excited by the sudden turn of events.

"Shall I guess your purpose?" she asked, shifting from one foot to the other. "You sought something in that chest, something here no longer?"

Alistair stepped in, apparently no more eager to play such games with this Witch.

"'Here no longer'?" he said. "You stole them, didn't you? You're… some kind of… sneaky… Witch-thief!"

And with that Alistair lost a significant amount of his steam. Lance wished that he had done more to control the course of the conversation, however adversarial it might be. She laughed, using it.

"How very eloquent! How does one steal from dead men?"

"Very easily, it seems," said Alistair. He'd obviously decided that banter wasn't at all what he was interested in, and Lance felt a tinge of disappointment at that. "Those documents are Grey Warden property, and I suggest you return them."

"I will not, for 'twas not I who removed them. Invoke a name that means nothing here any longer, if you wish. I am not threatened."

Lance stepped forward, raising a hand to silence whatever rebuttal Alistair might offer. He stepped forward, making it readily apparent that he was the one doing the talking.

"Then who took them?" he asked. She smiled at him, hopefully impressed.

"'Twas my mother, in fact."

"Can you take us to her?"

"Now there is a sensible request. I like you," she said. Lance couldn't help the ego boost he got from it. She was a creepy, crazy Witch of the Wilds, sure. But she was a wonderful woman.

She stepped away, heading for the brush. She obviously intended for them to follow, or at least he hoped so. Something fiendish in him said that he wouldn't mind staying near this woman for a bit longer. And something rational said that he would be a fool to do any such thing.

Her mother's hut wasn't far at all. She led them through the thick forest, past the teeming Darkspawn horde to the ramshackle little shed in the woods. By all means it shouldn't have been standing still. It looked to be made purely out of whatever discarded material could be gleaned by venturing out of the wilds near human settlements, and it looked just as fragile. Lance was glad that they didn't offer to let them inside, or else the shack would have shattered.

Her mother stood waiting for them, seemingly disinterested in the fact that her daughter had just arrived with four armed and armored men. She was probably a Witch, too. A little witchy family in a cozy shambolic hut in the woods.

"Mother, I bring four Grey Wardens who-" Morrigan began, but her mother cut her off.

"I see them, girl. Much as I expected," she said. The woman was old. Beyond old. Lance didn't know it was possible to live as long as she must have. Her hair was grey and her tan skin was wrinkled incredibly. She had a smug attitude, and it was no wonder where Morrigan got it from.

"Are we supposed to believe that you were expecting us?" asked Alistair incredulously. Morrigan smiled knowingly, and Lance caught her gaze.

She had a predator's eyes. To her it was all a game of when she could strike. She was nuts. And then he realized that she was looking right at him. Something passed between them in that moment, something of hostility. They didn't back down from each other, and he got the impression that Morrigan found it all the more fun that way. Lance was just pissed.

"You are required to do nothing," said Morrigan's mother, a little annoyed. "Least of all believe. Close one's eyes tight or open one's arms wide, either way one's a fool."

"She's a witch, I tell you," Daveth whispered to Jory. Lance winced at his companion's inability to actually keep his whisper at a whisper's volume. "We shouldn't be talking to her!"

"Quiet, Daveth," said Jory. "If she's really a witch do you want to make her mad?"

"There's a smart lad," said the old Witch. Morrigan seemed unfazed by the conversation, and didn't stop looking Lance right in the eye. His dog did that sometimes, when there was something it desperately wanted. She probably wanted to gut him, or to see what color his brains were.

"There is a smart lad. Sadly irrelevant to the larger scheme of things, but it is not I who decides. Believe what you will."

She turned to Lance, examining the subtle contest of wills between him and her daughter. She stepped forward, breaking his gaze and causing a feeling of butterflies in his stomach.

"And what of you? Do you possess a different view point? Or do you believe as the others do?"

He cleared his throat, trying desperately to keep from glancing over her shoulder at her pretty daughter.

"I believe you have something we need."

"They did not come to hear your wild tales, mother," Morrigan said. Lance glanced back at her.

"True," she remarked. "They came for their treaties, yes? And before you begin barking, your precious seals wore off long ago. I have protected these."

She turned to get them from her pocket, and Lance took the extra second to glance over at Morrigan. He relaxed a bit. They'd yet to be put into a stew, and the woman seemed to actually desire to help them, despite her daughter's sarcasm. She was oh-so-pretty, though. And that could go a long way.

"You…" Alistair said, once more acting like a bit of a dolt and speaking before thinking. "Oh. You protected them?"

"And why not? Here. Take these to your Grey Wardens. Tell them that this Blight's threat is greater than they realize."

"Thank you for returning them," Lance said, taking them. He was trained to be polite, Witches or no. And he rather liked the reaction from Morrigan.

"Oh! Such manners, and in the last place you expect them. Just like stockings!"

"Time for you to go, then," said Morrigan. Lance felt just a little disappointed at that.

"Nonsense, girl," said her mother. "These are your guests."

Morrigan made a face, apparently displeased at having to show some modicum of civility.

"Oh, all right," she groaned. "Follow me."

And with that, she led them back to the camp, treaties in hand, much to Lance's disappointment.


	7. The Joining

Duncan hadn't been too interested to hear about Morrigan and her mother, simply reminding Alistair that his past as a Templar, and thus their status as apostates, was irrelevant. He took their vials, telling Lance to hold on to the treaties for the time being, and lead them away to a secluded part of the camp.

"The last trial you will face is the Joining," he told them. "It is a tradition as old as the first Grey Wardens, and one we keep to this very day."

"It's what gives us our power," said Alistair. "It's how we sense the Darkspawn and kill the Archdemon."

Ser Jory had expressed some trepidation at the prospect of another test. By his understanding he'd already done enough to prove himself in the eyes of the Wardens and didn't need any more tests, especially considering that his wife and forthcoming child were waiting on him.

"I'd give a lot more than that if I knew it would stop the Blight," said Daveth. He was shifty, but in this he seemed sincere. "Tell me, Ser Knight, would you sacrifice yourself to save your pretty wife and baby?"

"I…"

"I know I would. Maybe we'll die. But if we don't stop the Blight, everyone will die."

"He's right," said Lance. "We don't have anything greater to lose."

Ser Jory stayed silent, thinking it over. Lance meant every word. He would die to become a Grey Warden; he had nothing left otherwise. He found out today that he was good at killing Darkspawn, and that was enough for him. He would continue to kill them, for as long as he could. And then he would give the same to Arl Howe.

Duncan and Alistair returned, carrying with them a number of pendants and a large goblet. Duncan removed the vials of Darkspawn blood and poured them into the goblet as he spoke.

"This is what makes a Grey Warden. You will take the Taint into yourself, master it, and you will be a Grey Warden."

"What?" asked Ser Jory. "Men have died from tasting that blood."

"But some survive," Duncan countered. "We have survived. Mastering the Taint means that you can sense the Darkspawn. It means that you can defeat them. This is the source of our power, our victory."

Alistair nodded. "Burns a bit going down, but otherwise you should come out fine."

"I'll do it," said Daveth, stepping forward. "Even if you won't."

Duncan looked them over, seemingly satisfied. "There are a few words spoken during the Joining. Alistair, if you would."

Alistair bowed his head and spoke, "Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry out the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten and that one day we shall join you."

"Daveth, step forward," said Duncan, holding out the goblet for him to take. Daveth took without hesitation. He put it to his lips and tilted his head back, taking a large gulp of it. Lance wondered what Darkspawn blood tasted like and realized that he would soon find out.

Daveth handed the goblet back, wiping his lips and smiling.

Then he convulsed.

He gagged and choked, grabbing for his throat, eyes rolled back in his head. He doubled over, moaning in pain and trying to formulate words. His entire body spasmed as he fell to his knees and started seizing. It took less than a minute, but Daveth was dead on the ground.

"I am sorry Daveth," said Duncan. He turned to Jory, offering the cup. "Jory, you are next."

"No," said Ser Jory, terrified at what he just saw. "I won't. I have a wife and child! It isn't right! There's no glory in this!"

"Jory, you have no choice," said Duncan. Alistair turned away.

"No, I can't," Jory pleaded. He reached behind him, drawing his sword. "I won't!"

Duncan, still holding the goblet, set upon Jory, running him through with his dagger. Jory called out in pain, but fell to the floor silent. Blood pooled around his body and Duncan wiped his blade off on Jory's trousers. He looked up at Lance.

"It is your turn to drink," he said. Lance stared in disbelief. He watched a man die from drinking. He watched a man die from not drinking. It was an interesting test to be put through, and Lance realized that he had no choice. It wasn't just a matter of "drink or die" but he really had no choice. What was left for him to return to? What would be left once Blight passed through Ferelden? Even if Cailan could stop it, what would be left?

No. He was going to be Grey Warden, no doubt.

He reached out, took the cup without a second thought and put it to his lips. He only hesitated for a moment, working to be sure that he wouldn't gag. He tilted the cup forward and opened his mouth, letting the brackish, sandy blood in.

It was salty, and grated on his tongue. He gagged in reflex, holding it in his mouth before swallowing. It left a rusty taste in his mouth, but he swallowed it. He felt fine. For a moment, he thought he'd made it.

"From this moment forward," said Duncan. "You are a Grey Warden."

And then he convulsed. Black spots appeared at the edge of his vision and white hot horrendous indescribable _pain_ filled his senses. He lost all sense of time and place, and he collapsed. The world disappeared.


	8. The Battle of Ostagar

He came to what felt like years later. His vision was blurry at first, but he could clearly make out Duncan and Alistair standing over him. He mumbled something unintelligible.

"Easy now," said Duncan. "You are alright. You did it."

"Two deaths," said Alistair. "In my Joining there was only one. But it was… horrible."

"I feel like I've shattered every bone in my body," Lance grumbled. Alistair helped him up, patting off the dust from the ground. However long Lance had actually been out cold, they'd had enough time to get rid of the bodies.

"It is the price we pay," said Duncan. "You are a Grey Warden now."

Lance didn't know what to say. It would have felt like an honor if he didn't feel like crap.

"Preparations for the battle are to begin shortly," said Duncan. "The Darkspawn are moving in. I'll be at the planning table with Cailan; it's just down the stairs. Join me when you are ready."

Alistair shook his head, watching Duncan leave.

"You did well," he said. "It's more than anyone could have asked."

He followed Duncan down the stairs to where Cailan stood with Loghain. Lance took a few minutes to get his bearings and followed.

"Cailan, I must remind you that Arl Eamon and his army is within a week's march," Loghain was saying to Cailan. Cailan brushed him off, more concerned with the dozen or so Grey Wardens arrayed before him.

"Nonsense," said Cailan. "Eamon would just want in on the glory. The Grey Wardens will see us to victory."

"Your Majesty I must insist. You put too much faith in our Grey Warden allies."

"If that's the case then perhaps we should consider waiting for forces from Orlais to arrive," said Cailan, in a manner that suggested he knew all too well how his father-in-law would react.

"No! We don't need help from the Orlesians to defend ourselves," he said. "Please, your Majesty, listen to reason."

Lance stood near Duncan and Alistair, watching impassively. He couldn't claim to be a brilliant tactician, but neither could Cailan. It was painfully obvious to Lance that he was making numerous tactical errors for no sake other than to reap the glory. He was facing off with an entire Blight's worth of Darkspawn in a singular defensive location, surrounded by notoriously thick woods. He was facing said Blight with a force much smaller than what he could muster, even without reinforcements from Orlais.

The plan consisted of waiting for the main horde of the Darkspawn to engage and give some sort of signal for Loghain and his army to strike from the horde's flank. A fine plan, if it didn't hinge on the horde having more limited numbers. As it was, the horde was seemingly endless, growing larger and larger with the unknown thousands – possibly millions – of Darkspawn living in the Deep Roads. By all means the attack would just create a situation in which two armies would be cut off and surrounded by a single impossibly large army.

It was a tactical nightmare but Duncan seemed at least a little confident that the battle would be successful provided the Archdemon present himself to the Grey Wardens. If not, then each soldier would have to kill several hundred Darkspawn. Lance liked those odds.

"Now, when the beacon at the top of the Tower of Ishal is lit," said Loghain. "I will charge with my men at the flank of the horde."

"Who do we have covering the beacon?" asked Cailan, leaning disinterestedly on the table. Loghain frowned.

"I've stationed a few of my men in the Tower. It's not a glorious mission, but it's a critical one."

"Then we should trust it to the best," said Cailan. He looked over at Duncan. "Why not make use of some Grey Wardens."

He looked over at Lance. "Ah! I hear congratulations are in order. Perhaps you should be entrusted to secure the Tower?"

"It would be an honor, your Majesty," Lance said, still feeling something south of awful.

"Excellent," said Cailan. "Then it's decided."

"Your Majesty," said Loghain, looking all the more annoyed. "I must insist. You put all your faith in the Grey Wardens. Perhaps…"

"Nonsense, Loghain," said Cailan. "I am the king. And it's decided."

He left the table, heading for the lines where he would fight alongside Duncan and the other Wardens. Lance felt a little disappointed that he wouldn't get to the join them, but at the same time glad; he felt like vomiting.

"Lance, you and Alistair will go to the Tower of Ishal and await our signal to light the beacon," said Duncan. Alistair looked aghast.

"What? I won't be in the battle?"

"No," said Duncan. Alistair looked quite prepared to press the issue. He evidently wanted in on the glory of combat with the Darkspawn. Lance could take it or leave it at this point, despite his boyhood fantasies.

"Relax," said Lance. "King's orders."

"Right," Alistair said, defeated. "I… okay."

Duncan reached out, tapping Alistair on the shoulder. "It will be okay."

"Can we join the battle after the beacon is lit?" Lance asked. Duncan shook his head.

"Remain in the Tower and keep it secure."

"But what if the Archdemon shows up?" asked Alistair.

"Then you leave it to us. No heroics from either of you."

His first battle and Lance would be sitting on the sidelines. Just as well, he supposed. He was new to the whole Darkspawn killing thing and wouldn't put on a very good showing.

So they went to await the battle, Duncan heading to the front lines as one of the chief defenders, alongside the other full Grey Wardens; Alistair and Lance to wait to enter the Tower.

They stood on the bridge spanning the gorge between the Tower and the rest of the Korcari Wilds, watching the tree line for Darkspawn. They didn't have to wait long.

They could see torchlight between the trees, a great expanse of lights going from horizon to horizon. The gorge acted as a natural choke point and the Darkspawn numbers would be blunted somewhat by the steep walls. The defenders would have a better chance to hold until Loghain could begin his flanking charge. But there were so many of the Darkspawn.

They marched slowly out of the tree line, in what could be loosely described as a formation. The Archdemon was supposed to have given the Darkspawn a real tactical leadership, something tangible and capable of fighting on the battlefield. Cailan had said that three battles had been won already, implying that the Darkspawn lacked the tactical expertise of an Archdemon. Or maybe it couldn't be defined as expertise as at all.

They stood, just visible from the forest. They were intimidating. All those numbers, that bestial presence. It reeked of evil. And they milked it for all it was worth. He could hear their unholy shrieking from the bridge.

Archers lined up along the bridge, and siege gunner prepared the ballista for firing. They would wreak havoc on the Darkspawn lines, tearing them to shreds to buy the men on the ground those precious seconds of fighting chance. He wondered if it would matter at all.

"It's a real battle," Alistair whispered. "Maker, it's for real."

"Yes," said Lance. "It's something else all right."

He looked down into the crowd of soldiers itching to fight, trying to see if he could see Duncan and Cailan. He couldn't.

Then the Darkspawn began their charge, and the order was sent up and down the line to ready bows. As one, the archers prepared to fire, aiming to hit the Darkspawn as they came closer.

"Fire!"

A massive volley of arrows was launched, the night sky darkened even more by the sheer number of arrows. They hit the Darkspawn and did their damage, causing hundreds to fall, tripping up the hundreds behind them and stalling the charge for the briefest moment.

Dogs were let loose, dozens of mabari set upon the horde to kill and maim and die trying. Lance reached down scratched Ajax behind the ears, suddenly nervous.

A shout echoed across the lines, and the charge began, thousands of soldiers rushing to meet the Darkspawn head on. The battle was joined.

"Let's go," said Alistair, moving for the Tower. Lance followed close behind. They were jostled by the men and women on the bridge, moving back and forth to take up their positions where they would be needed most.

The Tower of Ishal loomed ahead of them, a taunting monolith. Arrows and boulders from Darkspawn bows and catapults glanced the bridge, ripping holes in the decaying Tivinter structure and killing soldiers. Lance and Alistair ducked and dodged, none too eager to get a barbed arrow in the ribs.

They reached the Tower's base, leaving the chaos of the battle and the bridge behind them. If only it remained behind them.

A single soldier and a Circle Mage came running from the Tower, shouting.

"Grey Wardens!" the soldier yelled. "The Darkspawn came up into the Tower from the lower chambers. They're everywhere!"

"What?" Lance demanded. "We have to hurry."

He led them up to the Tower's steps, spotting the Darkspawn slaughtering the soldiers who once defended the Tower.

He got his chance to be part of the battle after all.

The first of the Darkspawn, a squat Genlock, charged him, waving a broken blade. Lance blocked it with his dagger and killed it with a sword to its gut.

More Darkspawn flooded from the Tower.

He'd never seen a Circle Mage in action, but it was something to remember. He nearly dropped his sword when he saw the burning orange flame ignite across the blade, but then realized that the Mage was giving them a nice boost for killing Darkspawn.

He waved his sword in a wide arc, cutting up a number of the Darkspawn and causing the others to back away for fear of the fire. A Hurlock slammed his shield into him, and Lance found himself on the ground, a dozen Darkspawn looming all around him.

Alistair appeared over him suddenly, blocking Darkspawn blades with his shield, stabbing out with his sword as he did. Darkspawn fell around them and Lance realized that the goofy Templar was saving his life. Ajax was already chewing up the surrounding Darkspawn, bringing Genlocks down and ripping out their throats.

Lance gripped his sword and lashed out, giving himself an opening to stand at Alistair's side and killing the Darkspawn. Bolts of light shot into the horde, dropping them in scores. Together they pushed into the Tower, slaughtering the Darkspawn as they went.

It was hell getting through the gates, hacking and slashing and stabbing all the same. His once shiny and new Family Blade was darkened by so much blood. He sliced through a Hurlock's armor, punching through the flesh underneath and feeling the blade connect with bone.

Alistair took lead, his shield keeping at bay the bulk of the horde. Lance stood to his left and slightly behind, slashing at any Darkspawn that dared show his face. It felt like they were taking on the whole of the horde.

"The beacon is at the top of the Tower," Alistair shouted over the din, lopping off a Hurlock's head. "We have to hurry or we'll miss the signal!"

Lance kicked out, knocking back a number of the Darkspawn. They had an opening to push through, and Lance took it. He swung left and right, slicing them open. The Darkspawn had set up a number of barricades and set them on fire.

Ajax leapt out at them, pulling a Hurlock to the ground and digging into his throat. Now that they were in the more spacious Tower, they could break into the much more manageable single combats for which Lance's training had focused.

A Hurlock attempted to engage him, but he was sorely lacking in the martial grace Lance had been so gifted in.

He raised his dagger a feint to make the Hurlock believe he was preparing for an attack from above. It took the opportunity and struck low, seeking to gut Lance. Lance instead blocked low with his sword and brought the dagger into the Hurlock's eye.

He ducked low, allowing the sword of another Hurlock to pass above. He stabbed him in the stomach and left him to bleed out.

Two Genlocks charged, finding themselves too easily blocked and killed. The room stank of death.

In a few more seconds, they had slain the Darkspawn occupying the Tower's main room.

"Upstairs, you said?" Lance asked Alistair, getting his breath again. Alistair nodded, wiping sweat from his brow.

"Yes," he turned to the Circle Mage. "Are you prepared?"

The Mage was taking a moment to down a lyrium drink, recharging his magical ability and allowing himself to get a second wind. It was dangerous; lyrium was the most addictive substance known to man. But they need all the help they could get.

They found the stairs and began the long ascent to the beacon room.

The Darkspawn were waiting, having prepared for a counterattack. Maybe Lance had been wrong about the Archdemon lacking in tactical acumen. It was ingenious. How did it know that the Tower was to be a beacon? Was it instinct? Could it read minds? Either way it had cut Cailan's army off from the only chance it had at victory. But it hadn't counted on Lance being there.

He smiled at his own confidence, even as he gashed the throat of a Genlock at the top of the stairs. Alistair took his position at the group's head, keeping up his shield to block incoming Darkspawn arrows. They were in the kennel, where a number of mabari were caged.

"Throw the switch," Alistair called while manhandling a Darkspawn. "Let the hounds loose on them!"

Lance pushed forward, knocking aside a number of the Darkspawn with his shoulder and making a hole in the crowd so he could reach the switch controlling the cages. He swept his sword up, turning as he did to face the encroaching Darkspawn. He struck the switch, opening the half-dozen cages and letting loose as many hounds to attack and kill. The three Darkspawn that charged them lasted just as many seconds.

It was child's play to block, twist, stab, duck, block, slash, block, chop. He'd practiced ceaselessly before, again and again. It was important to be able to fend off multiple opponents, especially when a noble couldn't be sure who was an ally.

The Circle Mage displayed an impressive array of abilities, pushing the entire crowd back with the force of magic alone. He caused attacking Genlocks to burst into flames and sent a rush of ice from his fingertips to freeze to death a cluster of the bastards.

The room became a killing ground, and they did their best to ensure their lives. Lance felt a Genlock grab him around the waist, dragging him down. He rolled, slamming his elbow into its eye and cutting it with his dagger. When he stood, it was over.

Another room was filled with Darkspawn bodies, and they'd come out alive. In true Grey Warden fashion.

"I think that does it," said Alistair. "The beacon is just one flight up."

"Right."

He swung his sword sharply, clearing it of blood as best he could. It would need a good cleaning and a run across a whet stone when he was done. His armor was cracked where the Hurlock had shield slammed him, and he felt like he'd bruised a rib. He was still a bit stunned from the Joining, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins was doing a lot to keep him moving.

He wiped the dagger off on his trousers and stepped forward. He was nervous about what might greet them at the top.

"We have to hurry," said Alistair. "They need us."

"Right."

It was exactly what he expected, his first battle. It was a rush, a thrill. For all the horrid shit that befallen him in the past week, this was something he could do. He could control it. He could think of mother and father and Marna and Ser Gilmore, and he could make them count. He could kill the Darkspawn in their thousands and be okay. He was a god.

The Darkspawn were strangely vacant from the top floor of the Tower, where the beacon lay. The bodies of civilians and soldiers were all about, with various blunt instruments forced through their bodies. Many were beyond recognition.

He stepped out cautiously, Ajax following close behind. Alistair kept his shield up, cautious. The Circle Mage muttered a chant or a prayer of some sort. It looked clear, for the moment. He thought that maybe they'd gotten off lucky, that the Darkspawn were all dead in the floors below them.

And then a bloody lump of a person was thrown at them.

A hulking monstrosity unlike nothing Lance had ever seen. It was drooling, leaving wet, sticky puddles of it on the floor. It was scarred from some unknown battles. It screeched at him. Horned, fanged. Massive, all muscles.

It moved faster than Lance expected it could. It crossed the distance almost immediately, and it reached out for them, roaring. Alistair and Lance rolled away, keeping out of its grasp. The Circle Mage was not so lucky. He was lifted up by the… the Ogre.

Lance couldn't watch, unable to bear the screaming. There was a sickening crunch, and the flames dancing along the length of his sword vanished.

"Come on!" he shouted at the Ogre, getting its attention. He hoped Alistair could make use of the opening. "Come on, you ugly son of a bitch!"

It charged him, and he rolled aside, letting it pass. He jumped up, letting his sword dig into its side, spattering blood on the dirty floor. Alistair had gotten the clue.

He jumped up, sliding his sword into the Ogre's back. He held on tight, letting his weight create a gash down the Ogre's back. It howled and reached behind him, trying to get a hold of Alistair.

Lance leapt for it. He landed a foot on its chest, praying that he weighed enough to knock it back. He did. It stumbled, losing its footing. Alistair shouted, apparently afraid of the creature falling and crushing him.

Lance forced his dagger forward, catching the monster's eye and pushing the blade in. It howled in pain and rage. He stabbed again, and he readied to stab out its other eye. The creature was just wise enough to strike again.

He swung his arms out, dislodging Alistair from its back. Lance fell, hitting the floor and covering the back of his armor with filth. The Ogre thundered forward, dripping blood from its back and eye. It was reaching for him, eager to crush him, to chew him to pieces.

He lashed out, stabbing its hand and slicing off fingers. It recoiled. He found his dagger and threw it.

His father had told him that it was an unreliable trick, something that he couldn't depend on in a pinch, but something that could be used to pull your ass out of the fire. And lucky for him, it worked.

The dagger spun end-over-end in the air, meeting the Ogre between the ribs with the pointed end. It stuck in, causing the Ogre go reeling, waving and screaming. Lance took the opportunity, rushing it, grabbing for the dagger and twisting it.

He used his sword, shoving it into its throat, causing it fall onto its back, floundering. Lance felt its one good hand wrap around his waist, and then Alistair was above him, bringing his Warden's Longsword down onto the Ogre's head, breaking its skull, twisting its meager brains to mush.

And its hand fell away and the creature stilled.

Lance rolled off of it, wiping his bloody, gore-encrusted sword off on the creature's mottled grey flesh.

Ajax came over to him, sniffing his face for any indication of ill health.

"Where the hell were you?" Lance asked, laughing lightly to himself. "Great work Alistair. Fantastic. I love it."

"We should light the beacon," said Alistair, helping Lance to his feet. "We've surely missed the signal."

Lance stood up, glancing briefly over at the dead Circle Mage, bereft of a head. He grimaced. The poor guy. He didn't even know his name.

"You have flint?" asked Lance. Alistair nodded and reached into his pack, pulling out the small stone and flint he carried. The beacon was technically at the very top of the tower; a great chimney stack that could divert the fire up into its peak like a lighthouse. They lit the small wood-filled fireplace, sending up gouts of flame to signal Loghain's charge.

"We'll have to do this again," said Lance, examining his damaged armor. He'd need to get it fixed or get a new set. Alistair watched the fire plume upwards and smiled.

"We did it," he said. "We won!"

They started laughing, glad for their victory. They hadn't been allowed to join the battle proper, yet they'd struck the crucial blow. Dozens of dead Darkspawn, and the signal lit. Loghain would now be charging into the fray, slaughtering the Darkspawn before they knew what hit them. The Archdemon would reveal himself, and Duncan and the other Grey Wardens would have it dead soon enough.

The Blight was over. They'd won.

Then the door to the stairwell broke open and in poured dozens of more Darkspawn. Lance raised his sword to fight, as did Alistair.

And then a flurry of arrows struck them, and he was falling backwards.


	9. Flemeth

Murky bodies. Inky darkness. The Fade?

The Witch of the Wilds was there, the pretty one. He was swimming but there was no water.

_This Blight's threat is greater than they realize._

Duncan. Cailan. King. Loghain? Where's Loghain?

He couldn't breathe.

"Son…"

Father.

"Go, my son. Make your mark on the world."

Father, I'm coming. Father, hold on.

"You're feverish," she said. He felt a cold rag, water. A tingling. Magic? "You will be okay. Wake up."

Wake up.

Wake up.

Wake up.

"Wake up."

He dared to open one eye, brilliant light flooding his senses. He was blinded, and tears filled his vision. He was coughing, brackish fluid escaping his throat.

"Well, isn't that something a lady desires to see?"

"You…" he mumbled. His head was still swimming. He couldn't quite tell what was happening. He blinked away tears and tried to sit up, his arms screaming in protest.

"Careful. Your wounds are not yet fully healed," she said. He tested his fingers, flexing them. He was somewhere foreign, somewhere not Ostagar. It was a ramshackle little shack, with patches of haphazard metals used in the construction.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"You are in the Korcari Wilds. Mother brought you here after the battle," said a hauntingly beautiful voice. It was rhythmic, musical. She was beautiful.

"You… are the girl from the wilds?"

"I am Morrigan, lest you have forgotten, and mother has healed your wounds," she said. He felt for the bandages wrapping his arms and he suddenly knew what had transpired.

"The battle? What happened?"

"The man who was to respond to your signal quit the field. It was a massacre from which you and the other Warden are the only survivors."

"Alistair? He is alive?"

"Yes, and he was quite worried about you for some time, despite all assurances. I suppose it would be too cruel to say he was acting childish."

"Yes it would; everyone is dead! All our friends!"

"Such is the way of war," she said. "You would be wise not to put yourself in harm's way if you are unable to contend with the consequences."

"I…" he took a breath. "Why did your mother save us?"

"I do not know. Rarely do I know what my mother plans. I would have tried to save your king. A king would fetch a much higher ransom."

"I am nobility, you know," said Lance. Morrigan laughed. It was a pretty sound.

"Then I stand corrected."

He stood, realized he was naked and pulled the sheet to cover him.

"Do not bother," said Morrigan. "There is little left to be seen that I haven't already."

Lance didn't reply, simply pulled on his trousers to keep at least a sense of modesty whether or not she'd seen him.

"Thank you for bandaging my wounds," he said. She looked a bit taken aback.

"I… You are welcome, though 'twas my mother who did most of the work."

"Thank you regardless."

He exited the shack, pulling on his tunic. Morrigan followed behind him with his cracked armor.

"Ah, you worry all for nothing," said Morrigan's mother to Alistair. "Your friend yet lives."

"Oh, Lance," said Alistair. "I thought you were done for."

"Takes more than a few Darkspawn to kill me, I'm afraid," said Lance. He flashed a self-sure smile. And then he realized why they were there, that everyone who had taken part in the battle at Ostagar was dead. Duncan… Cailan… All of them.

"Oh, Andraste's Ashes," Alistair whispered. "It's all over."

"We'd be dead too, if not for Morrigan's mother," said Lance. Alistair nodded.

"Do not speak of me like I am not here," said Morrigan's mother. "I have a name."

"I'm sorry, but we don't exactly know you," Alistair said. "What should we call you?"

"The Chasind folk call me Flemeth. You may do the same."

"Flemeth? _The_ Flemeth? Then Daveth was right; you really are a Witch of the Wilds," Alistair said. Flemeth laughed.

"Oh, those stories! Morrigan fancies them far more than I, though she would never say so herself."

"None of this matters too much," said Lance, crossing his arms and wincing at the ache of it. "What do we do next?"

"Loghain's left the field," said Alistair. "He abandoned the king and the other Wardens! Why would he do such a thing?"

"Men's hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature," said Flemeth. "Perhaps he only desired the throne?"

"Maybe, but I don't see how could think to keep it after murder."

"He wouldn't be the first. Don't be so naïve, boy," Flemeth said. Lance clucked his tongue.

"We have to do something," he said. "We have to stop Loghain, stop the Blight. Is there anyone left?"

"Cailan's army was destroyed at Ostagar," said Alistair. Lance realized that Highever had been a part of that force, and that his brother had been in command.

"Oh, Maker," he declared. "My brother is out there. I have to find him!"

"And just how do you propose to do that?" asked Flemeth. "He is either dead or has fled to safer climes."

"He's my brother," Lance said. "I'm not leaving him."

"Well hold on," said Alistair, raising a hand to stop him. "We don't have time to waste scouring the Wilds for him. We have to stop the Blight!"

"How?" Lance asked. "We're the last Grey Wardens in Ferelden, there's nothing we can do."

"Arl Eamon!" said Alistair. "He's a respected man in the Landsmeet; he can unite support against Loghain! And he still has all his men."

"He won't be able to stand alone, though," said Lance. He could only dimly remember Arl Eamon. "Even with other houses it won't be enough to stand up against a Blight."

"The treaties," Alistair said, his face lighting up. "You still have them, right?"

Lance reached into his pack, pulling out the scrolls. "Right here."

"They promise support from Dwarves, Mages, Elves," said Alistair. "We might have a fighting chance after all."

"Dwarves, Mages, Elves," said Flemeth. "And this Arl Eamon. I may be old but that sounds like an army to me."

"An army?" Alistair said, incredulously. "Is that right? Can we do this? Build an army?"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," said Lance. "That's quite a feat."

Flemeth laughed. "It's important to see your steps but it is also important to see where they take you."

"Let's do it," said Alistair. "We're Grey Wardens, it's what we do!"

"Okay," said Lance, not willing to just abandon his brother like that. But he didn't have much of a choice. If Loghain had turned coat and sought to claim the throne, then their allies would be limited indeed. Cailan had been wrong; there was no way for Ostagar to have been a final battle. Loghain knew that, but he must also have underestimated the severity of the Blight if he thought he could risk a civil war like this.

With Ferelden splintered and with a good chunk of her martial forces lost at Ostagar, the chances of fighting this Blight were slim indeed. But if they could gather allies, create an army, and then they had a chance. Loghain would pay for this treachery.

"If that is to be your decision," said Flemeth, smiling at them. "Then there is one more thing I can offer you."

"Mother," said Morrigan, exiting the hut. "The stew is ready. Shall we have two guests for supper, or none?"

"The Grey Wardens were just leaving, daughter," said Flemeth. "And you will be going with them."

"Oh, such a shame," Morrigan said, smiling cruelly at the Wardens. "I had just- _what?_"

"You heard me, girl. Last time I checked you had ears!" said Flemeth, laughing as though she'd told a supremely funny joke. Morrigan looked horrified. Lance didn't like the idea either; an unknown factor, a Witch of the Wilds no less. But part of him liked the idea. He wouldn't mind travelling with a girl as pretty as Morrigan. And besides, with Alistair as his only company, things would start to get closer than Lance was comfortable getting with another man.

"Look," said Lance, noting Morrigan's sour expression. "Thank you for the offer, but if Morrigan doesn't want to come…"

"Nonsense," Flemeth said. "Morrigan, dear, you've been itching to get out of the wilds for years now. Here's your chance."

"But mother, I am not ready for this. This is not how I wanted it," she stammered. Flemeth only laughed.

"You will do fine," she turned to the Wardens and said, "Understand that I am giving you one of my prize possessions here. I would be very sore if something were to happen."

"She won't come to harm with us," said Lance, begrudgingly accepting Morrigan.

"That's good," said Flemeth. "Consider this repayment for me saving your lives."

Lance wondered what she meant by that, and then Morrigan spoke.

"Well, allow me to gather my things then, if it pleases you," she said, frowning at the both of them. "For 'tis apparent that my only design is to serve you both, as a loyal companion akin to your hound."

She promptly turned and disappeared into the hut, cursing and muttering. Lance didn't quite know what to make of the turn of events. On the one hand he didn't much like the idea of Morrigan tagging along, as bitter and annoying as she was. On the other hand: _hot_.

He figured he'd split the difference and hate her company while enjoying the view.

"Not to… look a gift horse in the mouth," said Alistair. "But won't this just add to our problems? I mean out of the Wilds she's an apostate."

"Well, pardon me," said Flemeth, casting a derisive glare in Alistair's direction. "But I thought you needed all the help you could get."

"She's right," said Lance. "Just try to get along. Please."

"I'm ready to go," said Morrigan, emerging once more from the hut with a pack containing her belongings. "I can lead you out of the Wilds, past the horde. I can even direct you to a nearby village where we occasionally obtain supplies, if you like. Or if you prefer I can simply remain your silent guide."

Years of conditioning had made it impossible for him to be rude to a lady, no matter who she was. It was a more subtle curse of nobility. Where a woman like Morrigan deserved as much sarcasm and bitterness as she handed out, Lance found himself unable to just give it to her.

"No," he said, regretting his words even as he spoke. "I'd prefer you to speak your mind."

Flemeth reaffirmed his fear of such a statement with a laugh.

"You will come to regret those words!"

"Goodbye, mother," said Morrigan, ruefully. "How fondly I shall remember this day!"

"Goodbye, dear."

"And don't forget the stew on the fire," said Morrigan. "I would hate to return to a burned-down hut."

"It's more likely you'll return to find this entire area overrun by Darkspawn," said Flemeth with a derisive laugh. Morrigan looked rattled by the statement.

"I… I only meant…"

"I know, dear. Do try to have fun."

He wondered what the two of them would refer to as "fun", especially if it entailed traipsing across Ferelden to stop the Legions of Hell.


	10. Leliana

As it turned out, Morrigan's idea of fun consisted of insulting Alistair's background as a Templar and his hair alternately, asking subtly insulting questions about Ferelden society, and poking and prodding Lance about his noble background – specifically why it was he was dressed in such rags.

"Honestly! You have more than enough money to purchase some proper attire," she droned on. "Yet here you are in the Wilds, wearing armor that doesn't even stay whole long enough to be useful. Should you not have an entire cadre of servants and aides? Is that not what nobility does?"

"My 'nobility' was taken from me," said Lance. "I don't like to wear those gaudy cloth things and I am bereft of any servants."

"Yet you are carrying a purse full of coin."

"It is a satchel. And it is full of all the money I have left to my name."

"Ah. I see. Well then, take this along with my apologies," said Morrigan, handing him a small leather pouch filled with coin. He scoffed at it. She'd pick-pocketed him.

"I should have figured," he said. They were approaching the village Morrigan had mentioned by way of the Imperial Highway. It was a long decayed Tivinter road, though vast stretches of it were still navigable. Lothering was the village's name, and even from here it was apparent that a vast number of refugees had sought shelter there.

And so had a number of bandits.

"Oh, ho!" shouted a dirty, cocky man. "Look spry, boys, it appears we have visitors."

The man approached them, flanked by a number of other ragged men, and one very large – and very stupid-looking – brute.

They'd evidently made camp on the Imperial Highway, amongst discarded carts and carriages. It was obvious what their trade was: theft. From anyone and everyone. They were scavengers, preying on the broken remnants of the refugees headed north. They were killing what little life was left in Ferelden's southerners.

"No one gets by without paying the fee," said the leader. "Ten silver and you can run along."

"Bandits," said Alistair. "Preying on refugees fleeing the Darkspawn."

"I would rather we just kill them," said Morrigan, loud enough for even the bandits to hear.

"That lady has a dangerous streak in her," said the leader. "You can't go around killing everyone you meet; you'll eventually come across someone who doesn't like being killed. Besides, we seem to have a slight numerical advantage."

His men fanned out, moving to surround the four. Ajax growled softly.

"You know," Lance said, taking a step to face the leader. He remembered how father had dealt with the bandits of Highever. He didn't like bandits. And he especially didn't like these bandits. Preying on refugees, extorting fear. He once lamented the lack of honor in nobility, and now he was face to face with the scum of the universe.

"I rather like her idea," he said. And in one motion he drew his sword, brought the flat of it down on the tall brute's head, cracking the skull. He turned and swung downward, slashing through the shoulder of one of the bandits.

The others reacted. Alistair drew his own sword and shield and slammed the closest bandit to him, slicing into him with the sword. There was a scream as Ajax wrestled another bandit to the ground. Morrigan had evidently learned a few things from her time in the Korcari Wilds, and she created a blossom of frost at the feet of the bandits. In an instant they were frozen to death, skin bluing from the inside out.

The bandit leader was the last left, and he stood petrified by fear.

"I…" he mumbled softly. "Who are you?"

"I'm a Grey Warden," said Lance, reveling in the look on the man's face when he'd realized what a mistake he'd made.

"Oh…" he said, entire body trembling. "Loghain put such a high bounty on you, for killing the king. I should have known. Had to be good to kill a king."

"Killed the king?"

"Yes. At Ostagar."

Lance sighed heavily. Loghain had thrown them to the wolves. He was spreading lies and misinformation. The Grey Wardens had killed the king. And they were up for bounty.

Lance put the tip of his sword against the bandit's gut, one hand on his shoulder.

"Let's make this easy," he said. And he pushed the blade through the man's leather armor, into his belly. He choked, gagged, but the bandit didn't fight. It was an honorable way to die.

Lance wiped the blood off on the man's trousers. Morrigan stooped over to pick through his pockets.

"What are you doing that for?" asked Alistair. She made a noise of disgust.

"I am taking his money. He has no need of it."

"That's not yours to take," Alistair said. Lance sheathed his sword and tapped Alistair's shoulder.

"Let her have it. She'll get more use from it than him."

They stepped off of the Imperial Highway, standing just before the village of Lothering. Alistair sighed once more.

"Lothering," Alistair said, returning to his glib self. He'd been rather introverted since Flemeth's hut, having spent most of the trip mulling over the deaths of Duncan and the other Wardens. Lance couldn't blame him; he was still thinking about the look in his mother's eyes when Duncan pulled him away.

"Pretty as a painting," Alistair said. He stepped forward to lean on the stone of the Highway. Morrigan made a noise, indicating she wanted attention.

"So he's finally snapped out of it," she said to no one. "Was falling on your sword in grief too much trouble?"

"Would you leave me alone?" Alistair asked, all traces of humor dropping from his voice. "Haven't you ever lost someone important to you? What would you do if your mother died?"

"Before or after I stopped laughing?" she asked, giving him a wicked smile. Alistair actually recoiled from her.

"Right… Creepy, forget I asked," he said, turning away. Morrigan looked ready to dish out another helping of sarcasm, and Lance didn't feel like working through his growing headache.

"Okay," he said, holding up a hand to silence Morrigan before she could speak. "Lay off him for a bit. We need a plan of attack."

"Arl Eamon could help us," said Alistair. "He would do it without question. But I don't know if he would be the best place to start."

"Well, we have to use these treaties…" said Lance. "Where are all these people?"

"The Dwarves are in Orzammar, and that's far to northwest, in the Frostbacks. The Circle of Magi tower is where you'll find the mages. The Elves are a bit trickier; the Dalish don't like to stick around in one place, but a clan tends to hover near the Brecilian Forest."

"Morrigan? Anything to add?"

"I say we go to this Loghain first, kill him. Then we can pursue this business with the treaties in peace," she said. Alistair snorted.

"Right. Because it isn't as though he has an army, or experience, or-"

"I was asked for my opinion and I gave it," said Morrigan. "If you wish only to list reasons why something cannot be done then we shall wait here until the Darkspawn find us."

"Enough," Lance said. "Let's just get moving. I guess we'll head for the Circle first off; it's closer."

Morrigan made a noise of dissatisfaction, something Lance was becoming used to, much to his horror. She was lucky that she looked so good, or else she'd live the whole of her life with her mother in that blasted shack.

They entered Lothering, or rather first passed through a small refugee camp set up at the very edge of the village. They were all in various states of dishevelment and all were dirty and sorrowful. It was pitiful, but in the manner that one felt _really_ bad for the people there. He imagined that Morrigan saw it as some great comedy.

There was a tavern ahead, and Lance figured that there must have been a tradesman there, or at the very least they could make the purchase of some supplies. From the smell, it might have been a worse idea than it sounded.

The tavern was full. People, mostly refugees who sought to squander their money on booze and bards, milled about, creating a din of noise that was quite palpable. They were all saying the same thing. They talked about the implacability of the Darkspawn, how it was impossible to escape. Some lamented that they were alive for such times; still others talked about the loss of their families. It was disgusting.

Why weren't these people up and _doing_ something? Why weren't they preparing for battle, or moving on to safety? They chose to whine about it as opposed to doing something about it.

"Hey, you," declared the leader of a trio of armed and armored men. They were soldiers, and Alistair seemed to recognize what house they hailed from.

"Great, Loghain's men."

"Haven't we been tracking a man by this very description?" the leader asked of one of his subordinates.

"Yes and no one's seen anything."

"You're a Grey Warden," the man accused. "You killed King Cailan. Loghain put quite a price on your head. You'll be coming with us."

"Try it," Lance dared. His hand was already at the dagger sheathed on his hip. "Come on."

A woman approached, and Lance sized her up from what he could see without removing his gaze from the men. She was a Chantry sister, red-haired, pretty.

"Now, now," she said, her voice tinted with an Orlesian accent. Lance had never met a real Orlesian, and all he knew of them was what father had shared in his war stories. "There is no need for violence. You must be mistaken."

"No, this is a Grey Warden and he's coming with us."

"You don't have to do this. You can just walk away," said the sister. Lance huffed at her.

"If this guy wants a fight, he can bring it on. I'm game."

Alistair made a noise, signaling his willingness to fight. He wondered if Morrigan was ready, though she didn't have much of a choice.

"I've had it with this," said the leader of the men. "Get the Grey Warden. Kill the sister and anyone else who gets in the way."

"Right then," the man's second said. He stepped forward, reaching out to grab Lance's arm. Lance gripped his dagger.

"Touch me and you'll lose that hand," he warned. The guy should have listened. In a great swoop Lance removed the hand that gripped him by the bicep and followed it with a quick stab to the chest, coming in just above the plate of his armor, going down into his chest.

He gagged, blood spilling out of his mouth. He grabbed the stump where his hand had been and collapsed backwards. The leader was about to shout "Get them" when Alistair smashed into him with his shield. He landed on the table and Lance heard bones break. The third man reacted faster, drawing his sword, prepared to attack Alistair while he dealt with the leader of the group.

Morrigan remained impassive, watching the proceedings with what appeared to be admiration.

A blade darted out from nowhere, catching the last of the three in his chest. He dropped instantly, dead before he hit the ground. Lance followed the blade's path with his eyes, shocked to see that the sister had thrown it.

"Wait," she ordered, reaching out to keep Alistair from running the man through. "Don't kill him."

"Go ahead," said Lance. "Don't let him tell Loghain where we are."

"No," said the sister, quite insistent. "You can let him go, to let Loghain know that you aren't to be trifled with."

Alistair looked to Lance for the final word. He shrugged.

"Let him free," said Lance. "But have him deliver a message."

"Anything, Lord," said the main, bleeding from his nose. "Anything."

"Tell Loghain that he'll need to do better."

He nodded and hurried off, rushing out of the tavern and into the harsh daylight of Lothering. The sister reclaimed her blade, apologizing for the tavern keeper for creating such a mess. The bard hadn't stopped playing his music.

"I am grateful that you didn't kill him," she said.

"It's no problem. Though I am rather curious as to where you learned to fight," said Lance. It was a difficult move to throw one's blade, and he was only able thanks to years of training and practicing it in his room when no one was busying him. She laughed it off.

"I wasn't always a sister," she said. "It's true what they said, isn't it? You're a Grey Warden."

"Hey!" Alistair declared, upset at not getting equal recognition as a Warden. It must have burned something fierce to take the backseat to a new recruit.

"Maybe we are Wardens," said Lance. "What's it to you?"

"Warden's fight the Darkspawn, yes? If you are a Warden then I am coming with you," she said. Her accent was sexy, as was her orange hair. But the chances the she was coming with him were slim to none.

"I think you're quite mistaken, sister," he said. She frowned.

"But the Maker wants me to go with you. I know it! He sent me a vision!"

Morrigan made a sound of derision, and Lance was inclined to agree. This lass was two wings short of a chicken dinner, as it were. He took a slow step back.

"I think you should… elaborate?"

She frowned, painfully aware at his trepidation to continue being anywhere near where she was.

"I know it sounds insane, but it's true! I… was sent to help you. You must believe me; the Maker wants me to help you end the Darkspawn."

"And why would I let you come along?"

"Because I can fight. Because being a Grey Warden in Ferelden right now is a bit of a curse. You need all the help you can get to fight this Blight."

"She isn't wrong," said Lance to Alistair. He already knew Morrigan's opinion on the matter, and he didn't really want to swallow more of her sarcasm and cynicism. He'd already had enough to last a lifetime.

"I think she's neat. Sure she's nuts, but she's more 'Ooh, pretty flowers' than, well…" he pointed to Morrigan, who opened her mouth to say something vitriolic.

"Hush, please, Morrigan," Lance said, knowing she'd ride his ass the whole way out of Lothering for shushing her. "Look, I don't even know your name-"

"It's Leliana," she said. She stepped forward, reaching out to take his hand. "Please. This means something great to me. Greater than I can tell you. You need me. My help."

She looked up at him, pretty blue eyes expectant and pleading all at once. He knew he was a sucker. It was a male curse, he was certain. He couldn't say no, who in their right mind would? Besides, she seemed earnest, and that was enough sometimes.

Morrigan made her displeasure known.

"You must have cracked your skull harder than mother thought."

"Yes," he said. "That must be it."

And so their little party grew by one, with the addition of Leliana, the mysterious Chantry Lay Sister from Orlais who was apparently good in a fight. And Lance heard about it all the way out of Lothering.


	11. Leaving Lothering

They were on their way out of Lothering via the decayed remnants of the Imperial Highway when a group of villagers, armed with whatever weapons they had on hand, stopped them.

"Grey Warden," said one of the villagers. Lance had a good feeling how this was going to go, seeing as every other time someone referred to him as "Grey Warden", invariably he ended up on the wrong end of a grade A screwing. "I'm sorry about this, I really am."

The villagers were moving in around them, and Morrigan was already pointing her staff at the largest cluster of villagers. They looked desperate, and would have to have been to assault him. He held no illusions that he was some sort of invincible hero, but he had the utmost confidence in his abilities.

"I don't know if you really killed the king," said the villager, readying what looked to be an ancient pickaxe. Lance took the opportunity to draw his sword. At least they were giving them a fair fight. "Maker help me, but I don't care. That bounty on your head will feed a lot of people."

And the villager attacked, an obvious signal to the others. Lance made quick work of him, a small measure of pity for the man's desperation. His sword swept through his neck, lifting his head from his body. Morrigan sent a volley of fire into a group of four, incinerating them instantly. Leliana was hesitant to fight a villager, especially one who had just stated he was trying to make enough money to eat. Lance would normally have agreed, but seeing as this farmer's bread was dependent on Lance's death, he settled for skewering the first villager to assault him with a shovel.

The villagers lasted a few seconds; none of them had been especially skilled. Lance almost felt bad for having cut through them like that. They were desperate, out of food, out of time. The Darkspawn were coming and here he slaughtered a crowd of villagers. Morrigan felt otherwise.

"The fools! What, I wonder, did they expect? 'Tis a special madness that makes a man attack complete strangers."

"They were just trying to get by," said Lance. "But what a way to go."

Leliana muttered a prayer to the villagers, and Morrigan rolled her eyes. It was only a guess, but Lance thought Morrigan didn't much care for the Chantry. But who could blame her? She and her mother were apostates; mages living outside the Chantry's purview. They were dangerous, or at least according to the Chantry. Though it was a very real and tangible threat.

A mage was like a beacon to the demons and malevolent spirits of the Fade, and the Chantry sought to protect the world at large from them. As an apostate, Morrigan was at risk of becoming an abomination or unwittingly summoning demons into the world. Not that she wouldn't enjoy it, Lance was sure.

They unceremoniously left the corpses of the villagers behind, a macabre warning to anyone that might try to do the same. It felt bad.

Regardless they had work to do, work that was more important than any one person, or any group of backwater farmers. Part of Lance's education consisted of the finer points of management, the sort of stuff that couldn't be learned but from a person who had been there already. Father had taught him all about the moral trials of being a Teyrn, in the hopes that neither Lance nor Fergus would make the same mistakes. Inevitably there came a time when the only choice to make was a sadistic one.

Today he was learning all about those. It still stung to think of father and mother. It was like they were still alive, waiting for him to return to Castle Cousland. They were dead though. Probably left to rot in a ditch.

The Imperial Highway loomed just ahead, as stalwart and silent and as it would ever be. The refugees would need it if they wanted get north in any fashion that came near quick. The Darkspawn could use it, too. It should have been demolished to prevent the Darkspawn from using it to gain ground faster than they could be held back. But that would leave countless refugees behind, to the mercy of the Darkspawn. It would have been easier to kill them.

On the Highway, though, a party of Darkspawn was already attacking travelers. They must have been a scouting group, sent ahead of the horde to feel out army positions. Fortunately for them, there were none to fight them.

But Lance and Alistair of the Grey Wardens were on hand, and they would not let them go easily. Lance drew his sword, bounding up the on ramp for the Highway even as a terrified Dwarf shouted for help.

He wasn't exactly sure of his surroundings; everything was in a blur to him. He slashed left and right, feeling his sword connecting with Darkspawn bodies. Alistair was right next to him, pulling his sword roughly out of the chest of a dead Hurlock. Morrigan and Leliana stayed back, taking care of any Darkspawn that escaped the melee.

Before long, they were all dead.

"You are really getting the hang of it," said Alistair. "Really. I'm quite impressed."

"Well it's a calling, really," said Lance, grinning at the man.

"Just don't go trying to show me up. If you can kill Darkspawn better than me then the others will start thinking that I don't do much for the group."

"And here I thought you were the comic relief."

They laughed, and Lance realized that he was finally getting what he'd always dreamed of. That camaraderie, that feeling of belonging to a group. Even as they stood knee-high in Darkspawn gore they were smiling, laughing. It was just like all the stories father told. And that killed him. He stopped laughing, sheathing his sword, and he paid numb attention to the Dwarf who's life they'd just saved.

"Thank you, Ser," he said. He motioned for a younger Dwarf, maybe his son, to come forward. "This is my boy, Sandal. Say thank you to the good man, son."

"Thank you, Ser," said the young boy. There was something funny about him, but it was probably just the usual Dwarfness.

"I can't tell you what kind of trouble I thought we was in. Lucky you came along! Regular hero, you."

Lance shook his head, raising his hands in objection.

"We're not heroes," he said. "We were just doing what we do."

"Oh, well then I don't suppose you'll want company on the road ahead?"

"You'd be welcome to come along. If you don't mind travelling with Grey Wardens."

"That would explain a lot," said the Dwarf, pointing to the mess. "I think I'll take my chances on my own. No offense. You seem like the type to get in a lot of trouble."

"Don't worry about it," said Lance. "Maybe we'll cross paths again."

"Maybe," said the Dwarf, and they shook. Lance led his group away, cruelly kicking one of the Darkspawn as they went. Leliana walked next to him, humming a soft tune. She was strange, he thought. But then, considering that his group consisted of betrayed nobility, a Witch of the Wilds, a mabari hound, and an ex-Templar Grey Warden comedian, Leliana fit right in.

"Thank you," she said after they'd been walking for a while. "I didn't think you would let me join you."

"Don't thank me," said Lance. "Thank the Darkspawn."

Thank Arl Howe.

"I heard of your fellows, the ones at Ostagar," she said. She frowned at him. "I do not believe that they were traitors. You, I think, are a good man."

"You don't know me."

"I know _of _you. Lance Cousland."

He was curious as to how exactly she knew him. He wasn't the best-known of the Cousland line, not by a long shot. The only ones who would know him by name were his fellows in the noble courts. Maybe now that he was the last of the Couslands, the one that got away, his name was a little more prolific. She didn't seem the type to know the names of nobility by heart, though. And he was sure that they'd never met, or at least not formally.

"How do you know me?"

"The Maker told me," she said. "He said that you were going to find me in Lothering, and that I was to join you on the road."

He blinked at that.

"You're one Archdemon short of a Blight, aren't you?" he asked, his good humor showing through. She laughed, and he decided that he liked the sound.

"Never mind," he said. With a sardonic grin he added, "The Maker set us up, did he? Maybe it's a sign…"

He nudged her lightly, hoping she would take to the humor in his light flirtation. Then he thought of the last woman he'd flirted with, the last woman he made love to.

And he walked ahead of the group, desperate not to say another word to any of them. He looked out at the setting sun and decided make camp in the woods just off the Imperial Highway.


	12. Camp

There were legions of them, countless. Fanged, armored, monstrous. They were the Darkspawn, in all their evil splendor. No force, not man, Dwarf, or Elf could stand against them. They had shattered this world already, and would do so again.

And above it all, like a general leading his men on parade, the Archdemon flew. He guided, he taught, he cared for the Darkspawn, the beings hated by the world. He was a caring father, a guiding hand. Under him, the Darkspawn hordes would not be stopped. He would shatter the worlds of the surface-folk and no one would stop him.

_I am Urthemiel, Warden. And I can sense you. Come to me._

Lance awoke with a start, hand instinctively reaching for the sword beside him. He was safe, for the moment, he realized. In camp. He sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck, where sweat had beaded.

"Bad dreams?" asked Alistair, sitting up on his own bedroll. Lance nodded.

"Like you wouldn't believe."

"Oh, you might be surprised. It's one of those Grey Warden things we didn't get a chance to tell you. Along with the whole 'have to stop the Blight' deal you have going on, you'll also get nightmares of the Archdemon."

"Is that what the dragon was?"

"Yes. We can sense, them, you know. The Darkspawn. They can sense us, too. Some of the older Grey Wardens can make sense of what he's saying, but I sure can't."

"Do they go away?"

"After a while," said Alistair. He looked thoughtful. "It's worse if you join during a Blight. I suppose it will go away once the Archdemon is dead."

"There's a thought," said Lance. He stood up, following Alistair's lead. It would be morning soon; already the sun was creeping up over the horizon. They would need to be on the move if they wanted to reach the Circle by nightfall.

The tent nearest Lance stirred and Leliana emerged. She had rid herself of those gods-awful Chantry robes and donned the much more fashionable leather armor. A bow was slung over one shoulder alongside a quiver of arrows. She looked a far cry from the Chantry sister they'd met just a few hours ago.

"You're already up?" she asked. "I was just going to prepare you something to eat."

"Oh, that would be lovely," said Alistair. "I don't think I could stand to eat my own cooking again."

"Did you want something, too, Alistair?" she asked. Lance coughed to stifle a laugh upon seeing Alistair's indignant look. Leliana was definitely an oddball. She'd made herself Lance's personal assistant, ostensibly to thank him for allowing her along. He'd insisted that it wasn't necessary, but she ignored him.

He didn't mind, exactly. He was used to being waited on, and though there was a time when he refused such luxuries he was starting to miss it. Besides, she was awfully cute when she politely asked to sharpen his sword. His literal sword.

But the others didn't find her nearly as endearing. Alistair had insisted on referring to her as a "peanut farmer" on the basis that she was, well, "nuts". Morrigan had taken to calling her "the girl", apparently disgusted by Leliana's syrupy sweet attitude. Lance liked her, though. She was sweet, polite. It was like she was nobility, but in that rare good way. She reminded him a lot of… another girl whose memory still pained him.

And that made him hate her. He didn't want to be very near her, and he didn't want her know that.

"I'm okay," he said. "I'll feed myself."

He stood and examined their camp. He had no real experience with roughing it in the woods, but he thankfully had Morrigan and Alistair and, most surprisingly, Leliana to help him. And all things considered, he thought he was doing pretty well.

Strangely, the two Dwarves from the road were at the camp, having set up a small tent space of their own alongside their cart. Lance strolled over to them, curious as to why they decided to follow the group.

"Hello there, friend," said the Dwarf. "I hope you don't mind. We were following along the road and saw that you had made camp. I thought to myself, 'where's a safer place to camp than with a Grey Warden'? I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," said Lance. "I don't think we ever got introduced."

"Oh, where are my manners? Bodahn Feddic's the name. Trader. Me and my son are from Orzammar."

"Lance. Grey Warden. Pleasure to meet you."

"Thank you for all you've done for us," said Bodahn. "I'll repay you of course. I can give you a super deal on everything I sell. And my son Sandal here is a miracle worker with enchantments."

"Enchantment!" the boy declared and clapped his hands. Lance raised an eyebrow.

"He's a bit simple," said Bodahn. "A mage fellow called him a savant. Never heard it before, but it sounds fitting. He's an expert with lyrium. Can fold the stuff into anything."

"That's good to know," said Lance. "I'll keep it in mind."

He stepped away from them, walking over to a disturbingly clear pond near the camp. Lance had insisted that they not camp near it, what with insects enjoying such ponds to great extents. Morrigan, however, had been insistent. As was her nature. She promised that she could take care of it, and apparently she had.

He reached into the pond, getting a handful of the strangely-clear water and splashing it in his face. It was nice. And it reminded him of better times. He hesitated, remembering life as a small boy, reaching into the bucket freshly pulled from the well and washing his face.

He remembered mother's approving look and the way she'd teased him to get behind his ears.

"I don't want to do this," he whispered. He rocked back so that he was sitting down. "I don't want to do this."

He cradled his head in his hands, suppressing a sob. He wanted to go back; he wanted to be anywhere else. This wasn't fair, this wasn't right. Marna… Oh, sweet Marna. She deserved such a better life.

He wiped away tears, splashing more water on his face to hide it.

"Did the prospect of bathing tire you overmuch?" Morrigan asked, suddenly behind him. He didn't bother to face her.

"Go away," he said. She scoffed at him. He could feel her crossing and uncrossing her arms behind him, looking at him with a mixture of scorn and disdain.

"I will not 'go away'," she said. "I am not a _dog_ to be ordered about as it suits your whims. I will stand where I please, regardless of how _you_ feel about it."

"Andraste, you're a bitch," he muttered. He tried to stand, but found that he just didn't have it in him. So he sat back down, knowing that he looked like a complete moron to her.

"Crying about your troubles does not make them disappear," she said. And he cursed himself. The last thing he wanted was for _her_ of all people to see him cry. She was a cruel person, one who had no problem figuring out something about a person and using it to hurt them. It was like a game for her, and he was certain that he would rather have left her in the Wilds with her nutty mother.

"What would you know about it?" he asked. He knew that whatever answer she could possibly give would be laden with insults or be designed to tear him down.

"What would I know of what? I do not cry. I have been weaned from such things," she said. "In fact, 'tis my understanding that crying is quite womanly."

"And you aren't at all womanly."

"No? 'Tis not what others have told me. In fact, I often think that I am as much of a woman as any woman could be."

"Vindictive and spiteful?"

"That in addition to my natural _features_."

He grunted. It wasn't something he could argue with; she was beautiful and quite gifted in her womanly features. And she sure as hell was vindictive and spiteful. But that wasn't what a woman was. A woman was supposed to be fierce, loyal. She was supposed to match her man in every way and fill in for all the things he couldn't do himself. That's what he had always been taught. A woman wasn't supposed to spite everyone and push them away. She was supposed to be a man's equal, his foil. She was supposed to do all the things he couldn't do, in war and in peace.

But Morrigan was not like any woman he'd known. And he hated her. And he was intrigued by her. She was so… exotic. She was beautiful, but dangerous. She had viper's tongue and a wit to match. She was smart, sexy…

"I think it's wasted on you," he said. And he stood up finally. He didn't face her, though, because he knew she'd find something to hurt him with, something he didn't realize he was betraying on his features.

"I think you are a liar," she said. "I know that you find me… adequate."

"Adequate. But just."

"Oh, if only you meant it. But in all seriousness 'tis unseemly for our stalwart leader to be weeping. Like a woman."

"What the hell do you know about it?" he rounded on her, looking her right in the eye. He didn't give a damn about what she thought or even what she would use against him later. He hated her more than anything at that moment. He wanted her to die. More than that, he wanted her to hurt like he did, to feel the same pain that had rended his life.

"You in that damned forest with your ancient mother," he said. "Hiding from the rest of the world. Do you even have someone else? Anyone that cares about you _at all_? I doubt you've ever even known anyone else. I lost my entire family, my friends, _everything_. I've got nothing to go back to. I am alone, and I will die alone with no one to remember me. So you can go ahead and make fun of me all you like; I don't give a flying sod. Do me a favor? Stay away from me."

He pushed her aside, hoping he'd done at least a little damage. She reached out and stopped him.

"You are wrong," she said. Her voice wasn't as sure and unshakable as it had been, and he knew that he had gotten to her. Yet it somehow didn't give him the satisfaction he'd thought it would. "You have friends. You have someplace to turn to. And you will be remembered."

"Is it you?"

"No…" she nodded over at Alistair and Leliana and Ajax. "They respect you. They love you."

"I don't think that's… accurate."

"Oh, 'tis very accurate. Alistair is your friend, for all the good that does. And the girl looks up to you."

"What about you? You don't give a damn."

"That is not true."

"But you hate me. Or I hate you."

"Yet I am still here."

"Why?"

"Because I go where I like."

There was a tense moment between them, and she squeezed his shoulder lightly. He liked her, he decided. She was abrasive, sarcastic, annoying and a total bitch, but he liked her. Maybe it was the slightly hurt expression with which she spoke, or maybe it was the fact that she had actually spoken to him with some measure of sincerity. And she was beautiful.

If this had been a story, something he read in his father's study, this would have been the dramatic moment where they kissed, where they expressed their hidden feelings for one another and admitted to having fallen in love at first sight. He would promise to keep her safe, to protect her no matter what they faced. She would swoon and ask him to never forget her and to come home quickly every time he left. Time would stand still and he would win back his honor for her sake.

But this was no story, and he pulled away from her.

"Get ready," he said. "We're leaving."


	13. Lake Calenhad

They reached the Circle of Magi just after the sun had gone down, having spent the day on the road. They'd taken only a few breaks during the trip, mostly for Leliana's sake. She was a bit unused to such long voyages, having come from Orlais where horses were far more frequent and not the luxury they were in Ferelden. She handled it like a champ, though, and never asked for a rest, though Lance could see when she was tired.

"You know," she said, tightening one bootstrap. "In Orlais we never had to worry about shoes standing up to long treks."

"I find that hard to believe," said Lance, sitting next to her on the fallen log. She laughed lightly.

"I mean, the peasants did. Of course _they_ did. But we didn't."

"You were nobility?"

"No."

"But you just said…"

"I know."

"Will you tell me?"

"Maybe later," she said, standing. "But we have to hurry. There's work to be done."

And so, at nightfall, they'd arrived at Lake Calenhad, so named for the great conquering king of Ferelden's past. In the center of the lake, on a small island, sat the Circle Tower.

"How very fitting that they would build a prison for mages in the middle of a lake and make it look like a giant phallus," said Morrigan. Lance squinted at the tower.

"It's not phallic," he said. "Not very much so."

"I take it you don't approve?" asked Alistair. It was a question asked in the manner of one who already knew the answer, but Morrigan couldn't help herself.

"No, I do not 'approve'," she said. "That these mages would _allow_ themselves to be imprisoned like this speaks very dimly of all who practice magic."

"Present company included?" asked Lance, flashing her mischievous grin. It was a game to her, one that she very much interested in.

"I was raised as a true mage should be raised; free from the restrictions and leashes of the Chantry."

"And you think you're a better mage for it?" asked Alistair, as though it was just hilarious.

"Yes. I have not given myself over to demons, nor have I destroyed the world with my 'dangerous practices'. Names like 'apostate' and 'maleficarum' have little meaning in the Wilds."

"Enough of this," said Lance. He started down the small hill to where the ferry that would take them to the Circle waited. They had work to do and little time to wait around discussing the finer points of magic and its practice. Especially not between an apostate mage and a Templar.

"Hold it," said the young Templar guarding the ferry. Lance noted, with some hilarity, that he and Alistair shared the same haircut. "No one is getting across to the Circle."

"We are Grey Wardens," said Lance, indicating himself and Alistair. "We need help from the mages to fight the Blight."

"Oh, a Grey Warden, are you? Well, if you're a Grey Warden than you can prove it," said the Templar. Lance cocked an eyebrow.

"Prove it?" he asked, unable to believe that he was getting hassled by a glorified ferryman. And the ferryman in question was smug indeed. "I have these documents…"

He held out the treaties, and the Templar gave them a quick glance. He seemed dissatisfied.

"Oh, a Grey Warden seal. No doubt it wasn't faked. But that's not good enough."

"Not good enough?"

"Not good enough," the Templar crossed his arms. "What if I were to tell you that I had documents proving that I was Queen of Antiva?"

"Well… Pleased to make your acquaintance, your Majesty."

"Not funny."

"Look, surely there must be some deal we can make?" asked Lance. The Templar held one gloved finger to his cheek and thought. Lance was beginning to regret not having killed the man right away.

"That dark-haired temptress over there," he said. Lance looked back, realizing with a mixture of anger and horror that he meant Morrigan. "Surely the Circle would be too boring for her. Maybe… she could stay here with me while you go across? It gets pretty lonely out here."

"I think your next set of words had better be the most carefully chosen words you've ever spoken."

"Now, now," said Morrigan, a playful tone in her voice. And Lance felt himself dreading what she might say next. "I think it's a marvelous idea."

"You cannot be serious," Lance said. Alistair snickered, his own preconceptions about her apparently about to be proven true. Leliana simply watched on with raised eyebrows.

"I am. I have been in search of new prey for some time now," she said.

"Prey?" the Templar asked, voice squeaking a bit at the thought.

"Oh, yes," said Morrigan. To Lance she said, "Perhaps you should prepare yourself to cross while we are away. We will have to row ourselves; I don't think he will have the use of his limbs. Or his eyes."

"Ah," the Templar said. He took a cautious step backwards, not sure what to make of the deadpan tone in which she had spoken.

"Oh! I can smell the terror in him. Good. That will make the loving all the sweeter."

"So, you said you wanted to get across? Maybe we should go now. Right now. Now!" the Templar said. It had almost been too fast for Lance to hear. Almost.

They were soon packed into the small rowboat, headed across the lake. The Templar had insisted that Morrigan be seated as far away from him as the boat would allow. Lance sat next to her, quite intrigued by the turn of events.

"That was impressive," said Lance. "Really. You're pretty quick on your feet."

"Such is how one must be to survive in the Wilds."

"Of course. Stupid me."

"Yes."

"But… You were only joking, right?" Lance asked, not entirely sure how to broach this topic but all too curious not to. "About the… you know."

"Was I joking about what?"

"You know. Your… habits?"

"My habits? I was not aware that we had discussed my habits."

"No, your _habits_. You know. When you… you know."

"No, I do not."

"Come on," Lance said, struggling to keep his voice low. "What you _described_. Is it true?"

"'Tis no concern of yours. I do not plan on sharing any of my _habits_ with you."

"Oh, come on. Just yes or no. I'm dying to know."

"Perhaps. 'Tis how mother taught me."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Mother taught me all I know. Allow yourself to imagine what that would entail."

"Oh. Oh!" Lance gagged, imagining Flemeth in a state of… indignity. With Morrigan watching.

"Alistair, switch me seats."


	14. Broken Circle

"I have never been to the Circle of Magi," said Leliana. They were nearing the island, and not a moment too soon. Lance was feeling a bit ill. The moon, hanging massively in the sky, lit up the night, providing perfect visibility and a picturesque view. It was quite beautiful.

"I bet the view at the top is spectacular," said Leliana, staring up at the tower. Lance had thought she was insane upon first meeting with her. All that talk of a vision from the Maker and her destiny was quite unsettling, to say the least. Now he was pretty sure she'd never been on the ground in her life. She was floating on some far away planet where everything was rose colored and nothing horrible happened with incredible frequency. He envied her.

"Yeah, sure," said Lance, closing his eyes and willing himself to not throw up. It wouldn't look good in front of the others. Especially not the ladies.

"Are you okay?" Leliana asked. "You seem to be a little… green."

"Oh, don't say 'green'."

She giggled.

"You've never been on a boat? I bet you're seasick."

"Not if you stop talking. And everyone stays very quiet."

She laughed. And Morrigan clucked her tongue in disdain, at whom, he couldn't tell. Thankfully they'd landed on the island and would be entering the Circle where they wouldn't be buffeted by waves or cold air. It was already cold enough in Ferelden, with the snow season rapidly descending. The lake air was just making it worse.

The Templar ferryman left them on the island, insistent that Morrigan be the first off, and that he be some distance away while she disembarked. Lance enjoyed that.

"I am so glad that you did not vomit while in such a confined space," said Morrigan. "I would hate to have to wash the smell off of me."

"Yeah," Lance mumbled indignantly. The Circle had large doors, made out of silverite or some similar material. It was thick, and hard to move, and Alistair was of the impression that it was to allow the tower to be locked up. Permanently.

"It's a sort of plan 'B'," he said. "In case the mages were to all, you know. Go demonic."

"Sounds lovely," said Morrigan, standing aside while Lance and Alistair pulled the doors open. "'Tis only right that the Templars be given the best equipment for imprisoning mages."

Lance didn't deign to reply; it would just insight her. And the last thing he needed was an hours-long bitch fest from her. As it was she stayed a good distance away from them at camp, as though she couldn't sleep if she were too near the rest of them. Lance tried to chalk it up to her having a private nature, but he knew that was just a bit too generous.

Lance hadn't seen mages in his life, Morrigan being only about the second. Or the third, counting her weird mother. The Circle of Magi was a far-away thing to him. It was a place of mysteries and fairytales. Father had told him what little he knew of the place when Lance was younger, but he wasn't exactly sure if father's facts had been accurate. In fact, he wasn't sure that anyone's facts were accurate. He knew the purpose of the Circle, to prepare the mages and keep them safely sequestered away from the population. But when it had been formed, when the tower had been constructed, and what they did on the inside were all things that few people outside the tower knew, and fewer could share.

So, when they entered and found the place in a very troubled state, to say the least, Lance was quite disappointed.

Whatever illusions of grandeur he'd conjured, whatever great acts of sorcery he imagined, it all amounted to a whole lot of speculation. The reality was one that made him long once more for the simpler times of being the bored son of a noble.

"Someone lock those doors!" ordered an aging, armored man. The entry hall was filled with Templars, moving to do this or that, all carrying weapons. A few wounded lay crying in the corner and most startlingly, a few lay dead in another. There were no mages to be seen. Lance had the gut feeling that something, _something_, had gone horrible wrong. And worse yet, they would have to be the ones to fix it if they planned on actually getting some support against the Blight.

"Who let you in?" the aging Templar demanded. "I gave explicit orders that the Circle was to be isolated."

"We are Grey Wardens," said Lance. "We've come to gain the support of the Circle Mages."

"Oh, you have a hell of a sense of timing," said the Templar. "I am Greagoir, Knight-Commander of the Templars. I am afraid that there is a situation that will prevent the mages from assisting you."

Fantastic. Fan-sodding-tastic.

"What happened here?"

"There was an incident. We aren't sure of the specifics, but there are demons and abominations all over the tower. We are awaiting reinforcements and the Right of Annulment from Denerim."

"The Right of what now?"

"It allows us to purge the mages," said Greagoir. "My hands are tied until it arrives."

"You want to slaughter the entire Circle?" Lance couldn't believe it. The place had gone to shit and their answer was to kill everyone. "Have you checked for survivors?"

"The abominations were everywhere," said Greagoir. "If anyone survived that, then they're ruined. A mad mage is no better than Maleficarum."

Morrigan snorted, and Lance raised his hand to stave off some tirade she might break into. They didn't have time to argue the semantics of magic, the rights and wrongs. They needed to get the job done.

And if there was anyone left in the tower, they had to get them out. It wasn't right. It just wasn't.

"Have you even looked for survivors?"

"It is too much to hope and then find nothing."

"So… no you haven't?"

"No, we haven't."

"Then let us in to find them," said Lance. "The mages are supposed to be a fierce fighting force. There's no way they're all dead. We'll find them."

"You are insane. There's no way I can let you in, you will be ripped apart."

"Look. We need all the help we can get," said Lance. "This Blight is going to kill everything in its path. Now if there is even one mage alive – _one_ – we need to rescue them."

"You're serious about this?"

"Like you wouldn't believe."

"Okay," said Greagoir. He signaled to one of his men, ordering him to hold the doors open. Lance nodded to Greagoir and moved on through.

"We'll seal them behind you," said Greagoir. "May the Maker guide your path. You will need Him."

Lance gulped hard, readying himself to enter the Circle proper. It was scary. He'd never seen an abomination before and now he was walking into a whole nest of them. He had to be insane.

But maybe that was the short definition of "Grey Warden". You had to be insane.

"Here goes nothing," he whispered. He was keenly aware that Alistair was right behind him, backing him up. He was glad for it. And Leliana was there, bow ready. He'd not seen her fire an arrow yet, but by her own testimony she was gifted.

And Morrigan was behind her.

They stepped through the doorway, tense, but resolved. There was no turning back. Ostagar had been a trial, and this would be his opportunity to shine. If he failed, then the whole of Ferelden would fall with him.

The doors shut behind them, locks clanging into place. They were trapped now.

There weren't any abominations to be seen, not this close to where the Templars had set up, but there was plenty of blood and bodies. The heaps of two mages lay nearby, young. Probably still in training. A Templar, armor dented by some unimaginable force, was crumpled in the far end of the hall. To the left, some sort of mages' quarters.

Beds, stacked in bunks. End-to-end it was close quarters for the mage apprentices. Leliana made a noise of disquiet.

"It is so horrible," she said. Lance nodded.

"They _allow_ themselves to be confined like this," said Morrigan, with no small measure of contempt. "These mages deny themselves freedom and live like prisoners. And now their masters wish to be rid of them all. I say good riddance. Let them all die."

"Oh, come on, Morrigan," said Lance. "Surely you have some sympathy. You could have been here if things had been different."

"What did you say?"

"I said that you could easily have been in here if you hadn't grown up in the Wilds."

"My mother protected me from the Chantry and its Templars."

"And if she hadn't, you would be _here_. Get it?"

"I…" she hesitated. "Do as you wish. I do not care."

"Thank you, Morrigan," said Lance. He led them forward, tentatively. He was suddenly aware of the silence pervading the Circle, and suddenly aware that he didn't want to be leading the group right now.

They stumbled into some sort of an atrium. There were mages there, huddled and scared. Lance breathed a sigh of relief, hoping against hope that their job had been done for them. Of course things were never that simple.

A demon approached, a rage demon, composed of fire and anger. It was squirming its way through a magical barrier blocking the atrium off from the rest of the infested tower. A woman, an elderly woman, stood before it. Lance realized that she was a mage.

A bolt of arcane energy erupted from her body, smashing into the demon and spattering it to bits. The pieces that remained became vapor, returning to the Fade.

She rounded on the group, looking prepared for a fight. There was something tantalizingly familiar about her. He'd definitely seen her before. White hair, fair skin… Ostagar.

"You," she said. "I remember you. The Grey Warden recruit."

"Wynne," Lance said, folding his arms. "What are you doing here?"

"I am a mage," she said. "This is where I belong."

"That's right. Stupid me. How did you escape Ostagar?"

"I wasn't at the battle. I was called away on Circle business before it began."

"Lucky us."

"Greagoir has sent you, has he not?"

"In a way," Lance said. "We've come to find survivors."

"Then you aren't here to purge the Circle?"

"The Right of Annulment is on its way. We may not have a whole lot of time."

"If you are going to rid the Circle of abominations, then you will need to find First Enchanter Irving. And you will need me."

"Welcome aboard," said Lance. She nodded to them.

"Wynne, are you sure?" asked a young a mage girl. She had been tending to a few of the children Wynne had brought to the atrium. She was a real good looker, too.

"Petra, I am fine," said Wynne. "I've still got a little fight left in me."

Petra nodded, a little less than resolute. She turned to the children, gesturing for them to stay calm.

"We will need to remove this barrier," said Wynne, gesturing to the field of magic she'd spread across the door. "Give me a moment."

Petra leaned in to whisper to Lance.

"Look after her," she said.

"Why?" he asked. "Is there something wrong?"

"No, it's just that… earlier she saved me from a demon. I really thought that I was dead. But she saved me. Afterwords, she was…"

"I'll look out for her," said Lance. "Don't worry."

He glanced back at his assembled party, confident that they would be able to content with the Circle and its varied horrors. He hoped so, at least.

"Ready, Wynne?"

"I need a moment," she said. "Keeping this barrier up for so long as taken a lot out of me. I wonder how I did it."

"You did what you had to do, Wynne. Be proud."

"I am. Let's not tarry any longer."

She raised her staff, calling upon some force Lance knew nothing of to rescind the barrier. It shimmered, reacting to it. And then it vanished.

"Let's do this."


	15. Blood Mages

"Maker, preserve us," said Wynne, closing her eyes as they came upon another room full of dead mages. Lance could imagine what had happened here. Some mixture of abominations and demons. But who had called them? And Why?

And then he heard whispering from the next room.

"Quiet, we have to be quiet!"

"But we can't leave here with nothing!"

"Uldred has lost it. We have to get out while we can."

"The Templars are covering the ground floor. There's no way we can get past."

Lance stepped around the corner, trying on his best bad ass impression. He hoped it held.

"Excuse me," he said, taking stock of the three mages that stood before him. "Any of you care to explain what's going on?"

They rounded on him, staves raised at him, ready to incinerate him or otherwise make him into an incredibly dead man.

But they didn't get the chance.

There had been a few abominations on the floor below them, and all of them had been absolutely terrifying. They lived up to their namesake.

The one that appeared behind the three mages was no different. Its head was a twisted, corded mass of flesh and muscle. Its head was barely visible and the rest of its humanoid body was covered in growths and tumors. Instead of hands, it had massive claws.

And it was laughing.

"Good," it declared. "Mages! I think I will have the plump one!"

It was absurd, and altogether terrifying. And it was deadly as nothing that Lance had thus far encountered, Darkspawn included. With one clawed swipe the abomination had killed two of the mages. The last, just a young girl, trembled in fear before it.

Lance rushed forward, ignoring his comrades in favor of saving the girl's life. He shoved her aside, sword forward. He stabbed it, digging his sword into the tough flesh of the creature and twisting it around in an effort to kill it.

It didn't die, of course. It wasn't one to die quickly. It punched him, laughing all the while. Lance felt a rush of indignity as he once again landed on his back, staring back up at it.

An arrow whistled through the air, landing in its stomach. Leliana. She fired again and again, arrow after arrow, faster than he imagined was possible.

It wavered, unable to take another step forward. The torrent of arrows kept it back and left it open to combined magical attack from Wynne and Morrigan.

It was ripped to shreds.

"Holy shit," Lance muttered. He stood up and reclaimed his sword from the mush heap that was once an abomination. "That was something else."

"Please," said the girl. "I don't want to die."

"Interesting way to go about doing that," said Alistair. She looked up at them, crying now.

"I didn't mean for this to happen. None of us did," she said. Her staff was near to her hand so Lance kicked it away.

"What happened here?"

"Uldred! He told us that we could be free of the Chantry, be free of the Templars."

"You listened to him?" Wynne asked. "Oh, Uldred has always been shifty. He turned you to blood magic, didn't he?"

"It was only a means to an end," said the girl. "I swear."

"Why should I let you live?" Lance asked her. He was already holding the knife that he would have ended her life with. If he could have. In truth, there was no way he was going to murder a crying girl.

"I'll do anything," she said. "I'll dedicate my life to something, I swear it. I'll join the Chantry, anything!"

"Fat chance, that," said Alistair. "The Chantry is very picky about who they accept. Murderers and prostitutes, yes. Maleficarum, no."

"Please," she whispered. Lance leaned down, close to her.

"I don't want to kill you," he whispered. "I don't want to ever see you again. Get out of here. And if I hear about you, you won't see me coming."

"Thank you," she said, standing. She left her staff behind and ran. He never got her name.

"That was dangerous," said Alistair. "She's a blood mage. There's no telling what she'll do once she's gone."

"She was just a girl," said Lance.

"I think you did the right thing," said Leliana. "I'm proud to follow you."

"I think I would much rather be elsewhere," said Morrigan. Lance sighed.

"Duly noted."

The Circle was a mess. Besides the blood and gore, it was just generally a mess. Books thrown from shelves, statues knocked over. Why did it seem that abominations had such a terrible sense of cleanliness?

No matter. The Circle had a large number of demons, abominations, and a few undead corpses. Those had scared Lance the most. He'd grown up on stories of the monsters that lurked at night, the undead being one of his favorites. Humans killed and brought back to life to fight as the thralls of some crazed apostate. Morrigan probably enjoyed them as well.

Regardless, they'd been terrifying to fight. He cut into them, slashed them but they didn't die. He had to shatter them, break them to pieces so that they couldn't rise again. And that was the trick.

They'd managed to make it to the Templar quarters largely unmolested. Aside from the usual horrors that infested the various dark places of the world. They even found survivors as they went. Most had barricaded themselves in single rooms, though some were out fighting. Those were the brave ones, the ones that would be invaluable to the war to come.

They all went to the atrium, to protect the youngest mages and to await rescue. A Tranquil – a mage made bereft of his emotions to prevent this sort of incident – was aware that a mage named Niall had led a group to face Uldred, having taken the Litany of Adralla. It was some sort of magical document, one that prevented a blood mage from entering another's mind. It was apparently to be used against Uldred.

"We have to find this Niall," said Lance. "Join forces."

They swept clean the Templar quarters first. Alistair didn't say anything as they did, just kept mute to the sight of his would-have-been brethren lying in different states of mutilation. A growth, not too unlike the Darkspawn Taint as Morrigan noted, grew across the floors and on the pillars. It was disgusting.

But worse yet, the most startling thing he could ever imagine was the sight of a desire demon and a Templar.

He knew little of the various demons that crossed the Veil. But he knew enough. The basic ones, at least. And it didn't get any more basic than desire. It was an embodiment of greed and pleasure and all the little things that caused a human heart to be ensconced.

And Lance had to admit that it was awful tempting.

Desire demons most often appeared as a sort of woman, though they could take any shape the viewer was most likely to accept. Their skin was white and their hair a fiery purple mess. Horns grew from this one's head, and it had a voice that echoed with lust and the very base pleasures that man craved. Its clothing was minimal, beating out Morrigan's by a long shot. A tabard around its waist covered whatever genitalia it might have, and its nipples were barely masked by some sort of necklace with exaggerated gold medallions.

Lance was glad for his thick armor and natural repulsion to mask any overt sign of interest he might display.

She stood before the Templar, saying something about tucking in the kids. The Templar responded in kind, obviously bewitched by whatever illusions she had put before him.

"Step away," said Lance. The Desire Demon didn't turn to face him.

"What was that?" the Templar asked. He was in it deep.

"It was someone at the door," said the demon. "I will see who it is."

"Don't be long," the Templar said. "The children will wish to kiss you goodnight."

"Why do you intrude upon this intimate and loving moment?" the demon asked. Lance took a look around the wrecked room, and at the armored Templar who stood motionless.

"You're kidding me, right?"

"I have granted his deepest desire," said the demon. "And he has granted mine. I can see that you disapprove. Go away, and leave us in peace."

"Why would I do that?" asked Lance, glancing back at his companions for support.

"His greatest wish was to experience the love a family," said the demon. "Mine was to experience the world as a mortal. It is an equitable exchange."

"Disgusting," Morrigan said. "'Tis a good example of _any_ marriage, is it not?"

"That's lovely," said Lance, brushing her off. "Now if you would kindly leave this Templar. Immediately."

"Why bother?" Morrigan pestered. "We are not impeded by this creature's existence. 'Tis not important to our greater mission."

"I would have thought that you of all people, Morrigan, would understand why we cannot allow a demon to continue in our world," Wynne said. "As a fellow mage, I would think that you would be as repulsed as I."

"It's not an option," said Lance to Morrigan. To the demon, he said, "Leave him alone. Let him be free."

"He is happy. Would you rather he continued his sad existence, forever alone? You are cruel. That is why I must be here to protect him."

Lance looked at the Templars dreamy eyes, imagined himself there, stuck in a tantalizingly real dreamland. Maybe for some it was comforting. Maybe some actually enjoyed it. Lance, on the other hand, would want to be free. What was the point in living if there was no freedom?

"Let him go. Now," he said. The demon shook her – its – head.

"It is too bad. I may have been willingly to fulfill your fantasies, too."

Without warning she spun back to the Templar, voice taking a panicked tone.

"Bandits! At the door! They mean to kill me and the children!"

"They will not get past me!"

Lance couldn't believe it. She was using the Templar against them.

"Oh, shit."

The Templar was quite imposing in his full plate armor, and wielded a massive double-handed sword. Lance imagined that it would suffice in ripping him in two.

He rolled out of the way, allowing the sword to slam into the ground where he'd been, shattering the stone or the marble or whatever else the tower was made from.

The demon launched some sort of magical blast at him, cackling. It was odd to him. Here the desire demon was, laughing while it tried to eviscerate him. It was a lot like Morrigan, in a way.

He lashed out, sword banging uselessly against the Templar's heavy armor. The Templar thundered forward, slamming him against the wall with his shoulder.

Alistair was behind him, sword slashing out. He caught the Templar at his vulnerable neck, lodging his sword somewhere in his throat. Blood spurted out from some major vessel. Lance took the moment to strike with his own sword, down at angle so that it would pass just inside the Templar's plate and enter his ribcage.

"Sorry, pal," Lance said, kicking the body away. It was unfortunate, but it had to better than living under the influence of a desire demon. As for the demon herself, Wynne took care of that. Lance got the impression that Wynne didn't particularly like demons.

She summoned up what could only be described as a "stone fist" to smash the demon into the adjacent wall, breaking one of her horns in the process. Another flash of magic and the demon exploded in a very violent and graphic display.

"Remind not to piss you off," said Lance. He gave her an approving nod, and she seemed to enjoy that. They cleared the rest of the floor, making sure that they paid special attention to the single blood mage. He hadn't been so eager to repent.

Lance understood the necessity of the act. They couldn't let blood mages, ones who were more than willing to summon demons and create abominations, live to start more trouble. Especially given that these ones had a special taste for violence.

When they finished with this section of the Templar quarters, they moved to the center room. The hallways were blocked by barricades, likely hurried attempts to stem the tide of murder washing through the tower.

The center of the Templar quarters was, if anything, worse off than the quarters themselves. The same corrupted pustules grew all over, but a number of mage bodies, each bereft of any wounds, added to the creepiness of the setting. More disturbingly, a single abomination stood in the center, much like a lord surveying his conquests.

"Ah, more playthings," he said. "If only I could find the energy."

He gave a wry laugh at that. It was a Sloth abomination, then. Lance wasn't at all familiar with the various Fade entities, but this was perfectly familiar to him. These creatures were said to be powerful, in their own ways. Though not necessarily slothful, they played the part.

Lance glanced down at the body of a mage at Sloth's feet.

"Who is that?" he asked. Sloth shrugged.

"A former playmate."

"Well then, I think it's time we proceeded to flay you to shreds. Don't you think?"

"Oh, you mortals. How do you propose to do that? You simply haven't the energy."

"What?"

He heard a yawn behind him. It was Alistair.

"I don't think… I need a nap… I'll be up and at 'em…"

He fell to the ground, and Lance looked back at him. It was very hard to believe. Alistair, for as goofy as he was, couldn't possibly have _fallen asleep_ in the middle of battle.

"You can't possibly expect me to sleep on a floor so sticky with blood," Morrigan said, yawning. She dropped her staff, reaching up to put one hand to her mouth as she yawned. This just wasn't possible. It wasn't possible. They were _falling asleep_.

Leliana murmured her need for a nap, and that she was sorry for abandoning Lance for a rest, and she fell to the ground. Even Wynne was wavering.

"It's some sort of trick," she said, leaning on her staff to keep from falling to the ground. "It is a…"

She too fell to the ground. All three of them were lying in a heap. And they were _sleeping_.

"Holy…" Lance dropped his sword. It was simply too much work to hold it any longer. He felt exhausted. He yawned, and he knew at once that the Sloth abomination had done this. His eyes were heavy, and he couldn't keep them open.

Just a rest, he promised. A quick one. Sloth would still be there. He fell back, hitting the hard ground with a feeling of relief. Since he was already there, why not nap?

"Yes," Sloth said. "Forget about this cruel world. Sleep. Sleep and find your joy."

But Lance didn't hear. He was already asleep.


	16. Lost in Dreams

**A/N: This chapter is about twice the length of a regular chapter in this series. You have been warned.**

He awoke with a start.

The ground beneath him was soft, not stony. It was strange. For a minute, he could have sworn that he was someplace else.

He stood, a bit shaky on his feet. Where was he?

There was some sort of fortress, he wasn't familiar with it. It looked old, like a Tivinter ruin, but it was well-maintained. He took several shaky steps forward, reaching out to touch the pillars that lined either side of the fortress' path. They were real, and smooth like marble.

At the end of the path up into the fortress, a single man stood. He was familiar, like someone Lance knew a long time ago.

"Duncan?" Lance asked, feeling very confused. He couldn't put his finger on it but he was sure that something was off.

"Lance, welcome to Weisshaupt Fortress, the headquarters of the Grey Wardens!" Duncan declared, especially cheery. "And at what a moment you've arrived!"

"Huh?"

"We have defeated the Darkspawn! Felled the Archdemon! As we speak, the Deep Roads are an inferno and the Dwarves are steadily gaining ground!"

"Oh. I thought you were dead."

"I got better."

"Oh," said Lance. He looked around. There was something definitely wrong here. Duncan was dead, he was sure. But here he was. Maybe Lance had been mistaken? Had he not been on his own deathbed a few days ago? He'd gotten better himself.

A few days ago…

Ostagar.

Duncan died at Ostagar, when the Blight overran the fortress, when Loghain had betrayed all of Ferelden.

"No, the Darkspawn aren't defeated," said Lance. "What are we doing here? You're dead."

"I am not. And we are here, in Weisshaupt Fortress to celebrate our victory!"

"Victory? The Blight is still out there. And you're dead."

"No I'm not."

"Pretty sure you are, yeah."

"You are mistaken."

"I'm not."

"I'm alive."

"This is asinine."

Lance carefully stepped up the ramp, facing Duncan eye-to-eye. He was sure that he was dead. Something had happened. Lance struggled to think.

Ostagar. Pretty Morrigan. Then…

The Circle Tower. Sloth.

"Maker, this isn't real. This is the Fade."

"You insolent little boy," Duncan hissed. "Here we stand at the brink of victory, at the edge of peace, and you can't just stay still? You want war? Then you shall have it! Eternal, unending warfare. You will _never_ know peace."

Duncan drew his blades, a move that stunned Lance. He could barely react quickly enough, drawing his own blades, fearfully parrying the strike. Duncan was quick. He struck like lightning, Lance barely able to keep up. With one swipe, Duncan removed the dagger from Lance's hand.

He ducked, barely saving his head. Another swipe and Lance's sword arm was pinned.

He reacted in the only way he knew how.

"There's no such thing as fighting dirty," his father had once told him. "Win or die, there's never any other option."

He punched with his free hand, feeling Duncan's nose break. He winced, knowing that Duncan was really dead but unable to shake the feeling of sacrilege all the same.

He capitalized on the moment's respite, driving his sword into Duncan's unarmored center. Almost immediately the Fade version of Duncan disintegrated. There was nothing left of him.

"Sorry, old friend," said Lance. "You always deserved better."

He reclaimed his dagger, musing on the ease with which he'd dispatched Duncan.

"Real piss poor job copying him," said Lance. He let out a chuckle.

And then there was the sensation of flying, and a bit of air-sickness. And then he was someplace else, someplace in the Fade.

He'd read a few texts on the Fade. He knew the theory. Only mages were supposed to walk here, only those attuned with the magical networks of the world could see this place. It was a dreamland, filled with demons and benevolent spirits. It was a place where wishes could be granted and monsters could be seen by the thousands.

And here he was, in the strange, sky-less place. He was on some island, floating in the void that was the Fade. He knew that his body was still on the floor of the Circle tower, before Sloth. He had to get back.

Yet, before him stood a young mage.

"Oh! Did you just get here?" the mage asked. "Did Sloth trap you too? I thought I was strong enough to fight him. I guess I was wrong."

"You… are you Niall?"

"Yes."

"That mellow guy said that you were going to face Uldred."

"You mean Tranquil?"

"Whatever. Where are we?"

Niall shrugged. "The Fade."

"I need to get out of here. I need to find my companions."

"Good luck trying," said Niall. He sighed. "I've already tried it. There's no getting out. Every time you think you're getting a bit further, you just run into another obstacle."

"There has to be a way. I'm going to find it."

With that, Lance turned away from Niall. He went to examine their surroundings. There had to be a way out, a way to get elsewhere. He found himself standing in front of a glowing… portal. It was a shimmering purple – or maybe lavender – wall, not unlike the barrier Wynne had constructed in the tower atrium.

He reached out to touch it, hoping that it wouldn't shock him or anything. To his surprise it was fairly elastic, and bent to his touch. He pushed against it, watching his hand become consumed in the magical field. It felt… gooey. And not entirely unpleasant.

He threw himself entirely at it, and found himself slipping through to the other side. Free-floating, he rolled out.

And a rage demon was there to greet him.

"Help me! Help me!" he heard. He couldn't see anyone else and didn't stop to look around. Immediately he drew his blades, lashing at the demon. Bits of fiery flesh tore free, and he found it relatively easy to kill.

It melted away with only a few wounds, disappearing entirely. Maybe it wasn't a real rage demon? Just another illusion? Something told him that it should have been much stronger, being in its natural environment.

"Oh, thank you!" someone shouted. Lance looked around. He couldn't see anyone. Then he looked down. "You saved me!"

It was a talking mouse. A talking mouse. Somehow, though, he couldn't find it in himself to be surprised.

"It is too late for me," said the mouse. "Take my form! It will help you defeat Sloth. Kill Yevena; she protects him! The others, they may help you. Find them."

Light flickered around the mouse, and he disappeared. He must have been one of the mages that Niall had joined forces with. Another thrall of Sloth. But why had he been a mouse?

Lance felt something pressing at his mind. It was small, furry. It was a mouse. Why? What was going on here? He thought about it some more, finding himself feeling rather mousy.

Maker's balls!

He was turning into a mouse. He felt himself growing shorter, becoming furry and tiny and beady-eyed. He had turned into a mouse. It would have been thrilling if it hadn't been terrifying.

He scampered about, running all over the little island that he was sitting on.

And he saw a mouse hole in the corner. Small, just wide enough for him to get through. This must have been what Niall had meant when he said that there were obstacles.

He took a breath, and plunged himself through.

He emerged whole again, human. The hole had lead to a mocked-up version of the tower, one that was covered in flames. He supposed that it would have been terrifying to experience if he had been a mage. He didn't feel heat, despite the raging fires around him. He didn't test it, though. They looked real enough.

The place was all topsy-turvy, books and shelves floating at impossible angles, stone statues on fire, smoke obscuring his feet.

It was altogether disturbing. He explored a bit, not entirely sure what he was expected to do. A few dreamlike mages wandered, but refused to interact with him. He supposed that they were real mages, sleeping elsewhere. He was just a figment of their imaginations.

He wasn't in the mood for existential pondering, though, so he pushed ahead.

Eventually he reached the source of the flames, a room covered in a raging inferno, with only one occupant. He was no sleeper, though. He was a Dreamer, trapped in the Fade, just like Lance. And he was burning. A Templar. A pissed off Templar.

"I can't control it," he said, voice growing in volume. "I… feel the rage. Get away from me. Get away!"

Lance stepped back, drawing his blades. He was sure that there was no getting away without a fight. And the Templar obliged.

He came forward, sword raised. This would be a tricky fight, indeed, if he was unable to get close to the Templar for fear of the flames.

He blocked the sword, arms outstretched to keep away from the flames. He swiped with his dagger, skidding the tip uselessly across the Templar's armor.

Lance moved right, avoiding another sword-swipe. Tricky indeed.

He brought his dagger up, barely able to hold the massive sword of the Templar with such a small blade. He felt himself losing ground.

He brought the pommel of his sword down on the Templar's head, drawing blood that became a stream of fire almost immediately.

Lance thrust his sword forward, feeling the Templar's hot armor break away, the sword enter his stomach. More fire issued forth from the Templar's wounds.

The Templar dropped his sword, doubling over. Lance raised his dagger to finish him off.

"Wait," the Templar groaned. The fire died down, becoming red stains on the floor and walls. He was crying. "You did it. I can feel the rage ebbing away."

"I… what?"

"Thank you. I'm dying now, finally. Take the fire," he said. "Carry the fire."

The Templar vanished just as the mouse had. What was this? The fire?

Lance felt that he knew, even as he felt himself being lifted away to a new part of the Fade, the fake tower. He could become the mouse, and he could become the fire.

He landed hard, looking around to quickly take stock of the situation. The new tower he was in was one filled with Darkspawn. They rushed forward.

He was good at killing Darkspawn, he knew, but these were too easy. It must have been a new form of illusion, Sloth trying to impede his progress. But with each sword stroke, with each strike, a Darkspawn body vanished. He cut a swath through them. It was strange that he felt so at home killing the Darkspawn.

The halls were a mess of fire and Darkspawn, and he made his way through some sort of maze-like arrangement, killing everything in sight. But fire blocked him.

What to do?

He thought about the burning Templar, knowing that he had been imbued with the power of the fire. He could cross the flames.

And fire spread across his arms. He was alarmed, at first, but then realized that he couldn't feel it all. He was burning, but it wasn't hurting him. The fire covered his body, and he was able to pass right through the flames.

"Try harder, Sloth," said Lance, satisfied.

Past the flames were more Darkspawn. He cut them down, reveling in the ease of it. Whatever Sloth aimed to do with these critters, it wasn't happening. They didn't even slow him down. He chopped left and right, lifting heads, removing arms.

Soon he was in another room, filled with more Darkspawn. And someone else. A Templar, pressed against a column, signaling for Lance to stay quiet to keep from alerting the Darkspawn.

Now he understood. All these different parts of the Fade Tower, they were prisons. Not for him but for the others that had arrived with Niall. That meant that he'd already escaped his prison.

He was just catching up to the others. His companions must be stuck in their own prisons still.

The Darkspawn saw him almost immediately, much to the horror of the trapped Templar. He let out a shriek of fear but drew his sword just the same.

Lance struck out, slashing his blades to take out two, three Darkspawn at a time. They disappeared just as soon as he made them dead, so he didn't get the satisfaction of seeing a pile of dead bodies. Oh, well.

"You… you did it," said the Templar, astounded that Lance was able to kill these Darkspawn. "I… could not. I am free now. Here, take my wisdom, it will help you. You will need more than strength to open doors."

He vanished, just as the others had. And Lance was left – quite ironically – bewildered, wondering what good "wisdom" would do.

How would he even go about using it?

And then he was floating, lifted off his feet and landing in yet another part of the false tower.

Dream-mages ran hither and thither, shrieking in fear. Some fired off spells at each other, causing damage to their surroundings and each other. He was in a mage's nightmare. This is precisely the thing that a mage would be terrified of.

Lance wandered the halls, watching the carnage. It was strange to see. These mages were destroying themselves. Morrigan would love to have seen it, he was sure. He thought about her as he wandered.

Where was she? If the others were trapped, as he had been, what was her nightmare? Probably having to be nice for eternity.

He snickered at the thought.

She was a bitch, though. He wondered why her mother had sent her along. Flemeth had said something about "repayment for saving your lives". Maybe she wanted to be rid of Morrigan as much as he.

No, that wasn't accurate. He didn't want to be _rid_ of her. Not exactly. He wanted her to be tolerable. In the short time he'd known her she'd shown extreme arrogance and mean streak a mile wide, but there was _something_ about her that just… He didn't know. It was just something. Perhaps she wasn't all she seemed. Maybe there was some redeeming quality in her.

He found it awfully hard to believe that she was _that _cruel. There was something. Maybe it had to do with her living in the damned woods all her life. That would make anyone loopy. But there were times when he didn't see her like that. He was almost sure he'd caught a look in her eye, when she had been making fun of him in camp, like she was… Never mind.

And what of Leliana? She was nice, a lot nicer than he would have expected. She was probably trying to make up for having come across as bat shit insane. She was alright, though. She seemed to be pretty confident and not at all as cynical and _mean_ as Morrigan. And she was pretty. There were things about her that were just so endearing. The way she laughed at whatever he said, like he was telling funny jokes, the way she was so eager to help him with things. She was always paying that extra special attention to him, offering to do things for him that she didn't offer to anyone else.

That accent was pretty awesome, too. Father had spoken of Orlais fairly often, having fought them for years. He said that their troops were competent, though mostly flash. And he'd talked about recent trips he'd made to Orlais, too. It always sounded so boring before, but now, thinking about Leliana, Lance thought that he might enjoy Orlais.

She was a very nice girl. Maybe, with a little more time, they could be something together…

He stopped walking, looking about to make sure that there were no dream-mages around.

And he fell to his knees, head against the wall, crying again. He thought he was done feeling sorry for himself, he wanted to be done. But here, thinking about another girl, thinking about a woman that wasn't Marna, thinking about a life that wasn't at home…

He reached out, finding the bookcase with his hand and he shattered it. Books and fake wood splinters fell to the ground.

It wasn't _fair_. Why him? Of all the people in Thedas, in Ferelden, why him? He wanted his family back, he wanted to go home. He didn't want to be traipsing through the Fade, fighting fake Darkspawn.

"It isn't fair. I don't want this. I'd give it all back," he whispered to himself. He felt tears rolling down his cheeks and he stopped. He wiped them away, struggling to clear his eyes and suppress a sob.

"Stop it," he said. "Stop it. You are better than this. You are born for this. There is _no one_ better for this than you. No one. Get up."

He cleared his throat, readying himself to stand, knees shaking.

"Get up," he told himself. And he did. "Get up, you pussy. Leave this… this weakness behind."

He wiped his eyes once more, and he started walking. He was better than this. He was a Grey Warden now.

"Help me!" someone shouted, lifting him from his thoughts. This was good. This was something he could take care of. "Oh, please! Help!"

He ran, sword and dagger drawn. He found the one calling for help, a mage, surrounded by dream versions of Chantry priests. That must have been what really scared a mage. The Chantry watched the Circle like guard dogs. They made sure the mages knew their places. The Maker cared little for the mages, and only the fact that they were Ferelden's greatest weapon kept them from being exterminated wholesale.

Lance attacked, skewering one of the dream priests before she even realized he was there. Another struck out with a flat board, using it as a club. He raised the dagger, snapping the board in half and leaving the priest open for a follow-up strike.

The trapped mage was ecstatic, so happy at having been saved from the Chantry.

"Thank you," he said. "I can be free now. Take my strength; you will need it to reach the last of Sloth's guardians."

And he too vanished.

"This is starting to give me a headache," Lance muttered. He was now imbued with the guy's strength, whatever that meant. And then, once more, he was lifted off his feet, being transported to some other realm.

He was sent to a blank part of the realm, an area of the Fade that was devoid of any features. Blank. Like the void itself.

"What do I do here?" Lance asked. He tried to feel along the walls, only to discover that there were none. He was trapped in infinity.

What trick was this? Had he ruined his own chance at escape by helping those others? It couldn't be. He had to be able to find some way out. It just wasn't possible that he was trapped. He had friends to worry about.

He needed to think, he needed to figure out how to get out of there. Wisdom… Maybe that was it? Maybe he just had to think hard enough and he would figure a way out?

And then he was floating. At first he thought he was being taken to yet another realm, that he was being transported. But then he realized that he was indeed floating. And more importantly, a door, a solid door had appeared before him. The way out.

He touched the door, felt it open. And then he was elsewhere.

"Clever, clever boy," a voice mocked. "You did what no one else could."

A demon. A desire demon no less.

"Yevena?" he asked. The demon giggled.

"Oh, it knows my name! How wonderful."

She was floating, just as he was. And she came closer. Lance kept his guard up, readying himself for the fight of his life. It wouldn't be easy, he knew.

Whatever happened, he couldn't let it talk him down.

"Why are you here? Why do you persist?" she asked. Lance thought for a moment. Was it safe to answer? Would she just lure him into a trap?

"I need to find my companions and get out of here," said Lance. Yevena giggled.

"You want to find your friends? Why? We could be such good friends."

She came closer, and he recoiled. It laughed even harder.

"I love it when they play hard to get."

He couldn't help but look at her chest. She was… attractive, in her own right. Certainly the completely disgusting, revolting, inhuman part of her kept him at bay. But the way she was looking at him, the way she casually touched herself while she spoke. The lustful tone in her voice.

"Stay," she said at last. "Stay and I will give you more pleasure than you could ever have imagined was possible."

He hesitated. It was tempting; he had a big imagination. But somehow, between the horns on her head and the fact that she was a demon, he didn't think that would be too likely.

"No," said Lance. "I think I'll just kill you."

"Hm. It's too bad. I think you might have been able to give me exactly what I wanted," she smirked at him. "Oh well. Perhaps something else, then?"

She changed her form, a brilliant flash of light taking him off guard. He raised his sword, ready to fight whatever new incarnation she had taken.

Only he found himself paralyzed.

"Lance… I miss you," she said. "It's been so long since I've had you."

"No. You… it can't possibly be. You are dead, Marna."

"Lance, I need you!"

"Don't. Don't do this. I'm warning you."

"Please, Lance."

"Stop it. Stop it right now."

"You can save me this time. We can stay together. I will do everything you can imagine."

She reached out, fingertips touching his armor. And that set him off.

He swung his sword with both hands, cutting off her head with one swift move. The body flailed, a reflex action, and the rest of it dropped to the ground. It stayed in Marna's form.

He fell to his knees, unable to keep himself from looking at it. And he threw up, gagging and coughing.

How dare she?

He spat on the ground, suddenly unable to look at the creature.

Another second and he was being moved again, to someplace else. Someplace that would try to keep him trapped.

Another desire demon, this one laughing at him.

"Catch me if you can!" she taunted. "I know you want to."

She transformed into a mouse, and vanished into another mouse hole. Lance willed himself to follow, to turn into the mouse form. He chased after it, following through its hole and emerging on the other side. He turned back into a human, ready to face this demon.

"You killed Yevena," said the demon. "It was only a matter of time. She doesn't understand you mortals as well as I do."

"You understand I'm going to kill you?"

"She lacked tact. Anyone can see the pain you carry, mixed with the rage. You don't want to see your woman. No, you want something else."

"I want to kill you."

"No. I know what it is you want."

She too transformed, another flash of light and Lance didn't bother to act surprised. At least not until he saw the result. He was taken aback. Who was this demon if she thought that he would be interested in… _that_? Or was he?

"Oh, Lance."

She stepped closer. Lance couldn't believe his eyes. It wasn't possible. It just wasn't possible. He didn't want _her_. Did he? How could this demon even know?

It was Morrigan.

"Think of all the fun you and I could have," she said. "I shall fulfill even your wildest fantasies."

"I… stay away."

She came closer. The false Morrigan smiled at him in a way he'd not seen the real one do ever. She licked her wonderful, full lips. He thought about the real Morrigan, waiting for him to rescue her, cursing his name for not coming sooner. He much preferred this one.

She reached out, tracing the cracks in his armor with her fingers.

"Mmm," she moaned. "I cannot wait. Take me now."

She leaned closer, head tilted slightly. Her lips parted just a bit. One arm came around him, gently urging him to her. She worked on the straps of his armor with her other hand.

"Don't," Lance said, feeling a bit weak. Was it a trick? Or was he actually letting himself fall for it?

"I cannot wait another second," she moaned. "Here. Now. Let us join."

She took a step back, moving to lie on the ground, spreading her legs.

"I am yours."

That snapped him out of it. Morrigan would _never_ in a million years say that. She would probably cut off all his male anatomy if he even _thought_ such a thing. The demon seemed to realize that her tricks were not working and she stood rapidly.

"Come now, do not be so coy," she said. She grabbed his hand in an attempt to force it between her legs. "Feel this. I am ready, for you."

"No," Lance said. She sighed in frustration.

"'Tis not a fun game you are playing. I desire something far more… pleasurable for us both."

She curled her lips in exasperation, and Lance noted the irony in that she was acting _more_ like Morrigan.

"Fine then. Perhaps we shall start slowly. I do so love foreplay," she said. She came closer, lips dangerously close to his. He hesitated. He should stop, he really should. But what was the harm in one kiss? Morrigan was very beautiful. And think of all the fun of her never knowing.

Oh, well.

The demon groaned in pleasure. "Now, now. Just relax love-"

She stopped midsentence. She struggled to speak, gagging. Black blood poured from her lips. Lance pushed her away, looking away from Morrigan's form as she fell to the ground, a hole in her gut from Lance's dagger.

"I'm in a hurry," he said. He paused, turning his back on the dead demon. Her actions had caused him some excitement, and he had to wait for himself to… settle down. So to speak.

"You…" the demon gasped, blood bubbling up from her mouth. He didn't know if it was really the demon's blood or just her approximation of human blood to go along with the illusion. "You're pretty good."

"Should have picked someone else. Should have picked Leliana. Maybe then I would have bought it."

"No," she said with a giggle. "No, you want the sorceress."

"No thanks."

"Hm."

The Morrigan-demon's eyes rolled back, and she let out a death rattle. Lance shook his head looking at her. Maybe it would have been fun to go for a roll with the demon and pretend that it was really Morrigan. But it wouldn't have been right. And just imagine what the real Morrigan would do if she ever found out.

The island faded and became a new part of the Fade, with a new demon. A rage demon.

"You gonna try to get me hot and bothered, too?" asked Lance, a smirk on his face. The demon laughed.

"Those two tarts were nothing compared to me," he said. "I will show you your hatred. And you will be mine."

"I think the trick is to not let me know what you're gonna do right away."

The demon chuckled. And then he was replaced, like the desire demons, and became the one person Lance knew he couldn't keep himself from ripping to shreds.

"Ah, the Cousland boy at long last," said Arl Rendon Howe. "I was wondering when we would meet again."

"You will regret this, demon, for the rest of your life," said Lance. "Both seconds."

He took a step forward, subtly allowing the rage to take him, knowing that it would make gutting the fake Howe all the sweeter. And he fell right into the demon's trap.

He struck out, eager to cut Howe in half the hard way. The demon reacted, moving faster than any human could. The false Howe slammed Lance backwards.

"Holy shit," said Lance, rising to his feet. "Guess you've been working out."

He charged, rolling under Howe's next strike and coming up to stab him in the back. Howe kicked him, sending him flying again.

"Andraste, that's pretty good," said Lance. This wasn't working. The more he let himself hate Howe, the stronger the demon got. He stood, facing the demon Howe.

"Let's go," said Lance. Howe approached, slowly, eager to make Lance give in to the rage so that he would be completely at the demon's mercy.

It didn't work.

Lance reminded himself that it wasn't real. The Howe he was facing hadn't killed his family. It wasn't even Howe. He swept his word out, calmly, efficiently, just like practice.

And he buried the blade into the demon's missing heart.

He twisted it.

The demon shrieked, and flopped to the ground, flaming blood pooling around it. It looked as though Howe was burning. A fitting end to such a bastard.

And then, before Lance could even savor having killed a fake version of Arl Howe, he was forced away. The island changed, became a flaming wreck of a fort.

"Now what?" he asked of no one. And then he saw it. Sloth was getting a lot less subtle with his tricks, having seemingly decided that he would rather Lance just be smashed to paste.

An Ogre, the spitting image of the one he'd fought at the Tower of Ishal, charged. Lance ran.

The thing was right behind him, gaining fast. Its feet boomed on the ground, cracking whatever material made the floor. He knew that if the thing got its hands on him he was dead.

A hand reached for him, the Ogre eager to scoop him up and eat his head. Lance stabbed with his dagger, putting the knife through the hand of Ogre, making it howl in fury and pain.

This was his chance.

He turned on his heel, slashing his sword at an angle, cutting the Ogre across its chest. He slashed again, making it recoil. And he jumped for it, sword leading the way. It was stupid. He was going to get himself killed. But no one got anywhere without the balls to back it up.

So he landed on the Ogre, driving his sword through its chest, causing it to fall backwards. Lance pulled the sword out, even as they hit the ground, and he drove it into the Ogre's face, rocking it back and forth to make the biggest mess he could.

"Sod you," he growled. He dug out his sword and his dagger and he stood atop his kill. He had reason to be proud. But he never got the chance. Instead he was brought immediately to another realm. And he was pleasantly surprised to find Alistair there. The real deal. No imitation.

"Hey!" Alistair laughed, looking down at Lance who had collapsed upon arriving. "I was just thinking about you. What an odd coincidence."

"Alistair. Good. We can go."

"Go?" asked Alistair. "Why would I want to go?"

"Is your friend staying for supper, Alistair?" asked a pretty blonde woman. Lance had to admit some confusion. This was Alistair's dream?

"Oh, Lance, this is Goldanna, my sister. Her kids are over there, and she has a few more running about. Say you'll stay for supper. Goldanna's a great cook. She may even make her mince pie," he said. He looked at Goldanna, grinning from ear to ear and said, "You can, can't you?"

"Of course," replied Goldanna. "Anything for you, dear brother."

"Sorry, My Lady," said Lance, rising to his knees. "I have to go and Alistair will be coming with me."

"What are you talking about?" asked Alistair. "Go where?"

"We have work to do," Lance told him. "You remember. Sloth, the Fade, all that."

"Wait, what?"

"Alistair can't leave," said Goldanna sweetly. "He's staying with us. Forever."

Lance cocked an eyebrow. He stood fully and cautiously drew his sword.

"Alistair, why don't you come stand beside me?"

"Why? And why are you getting your sword? Is there something I should know?"

"I think you're sister's a demon."

"Oh, come now. You're no looker yourself."

"Alistair, do you remember anything before coming here?"

Alistair took a moment to think. "Well… no. Actually, I remember the Circle and the demons. Strange. Maybe… I should come with you after all."

"No, brother," Goldanna said. "Stay forever."

"No, I don't think that's a good idea."

Goldanna howled like a monster, reaching to get Alistair. He yelped and jumped back readying his sword. Lance took a step forward, cocking his arm back and driving his sword through Goldanna's howling mouth.

She vanished, dead.

"What was that?" Alistair asked, quite shaken. "I can't believe I was taken in by that thing. You won't tell the others will you?"

Before Lance could reply, Alistair vanished. Where he went, there was no way to tell. Lance hoped he was waiting somewhere where he could be found.

Lance found himself leaving the place, too.

Leliana was before him now, kneeling. She was praying, alongside some old woman.

"Blessed art thou who exist in the sight of the Maker…"

"Hey, time to go," said Lance, wondering what other tricks the Fade might pull on him. Leliana glanced up.

"I'm sorry?"

"Time to go. We have work to do."

"You must have me mistaken for someone else," she said. Lance couldn't keep his mouth from dropping open. She didn't recognize him.

"Hey, it's me. Lance. You remember."

"No. Perhaps we met a long time ago? Maybe I have simply forgotten?"

Lance extended his hand to her, helping her up. There had to be some way to jog her memory.

"Do you remember your vision? The one that prompted you to help me?"

She thought for a moment, looking off in the distance.

"Yes, I think I can."

"Right. Now we have to go."

"Leliana will not go anywhere," said the old woman she had been kneeling beside. She was dressed like a Revered Mother. Maybe she was.

"I'm afraid we have business to attend to."

"Leliana, you have your duties to attend to."

Leliana shook her head. "I must answer my vision. I think this man knows."

"What vision?" the Revered Mother challenged. "The Maker does not interfere with the mortal world. You have no vision."

"I believe the Maker misses his children. He wants to help us. And that is why he granted my vision. I must go," she said. The Revered Mother took another step forward.

"I think I rather like your interpretation of the Maker," said Lance. He pushed Leliana behind him, putting himself between her and the Revered Mother. He drew his sword and Leliana went to stop him.

"Violence is so unnecessary," she said. Lance gave her a confused look.

"I think it's pretty necessary this time around," he said. The Revered Mother took another step. Lance wasn't about to wait for her to turn into something else.

"Leliana," she said. "I will not allow you to leave. All this time in the Chantry and you still can't help but to sate your lusts?"

"Lusts?" Lance asked, disbelieving. "I think it's time you died."

He took a step forward, and the Revered Mother attacked. Claws dug into his shoulder and he was knocked onto his back. He tried in vain to bring his sword up, unable to hurt the beast.

An arrow entered the Revered Mother's skull, and she went limp. Lance pushed her off and looked up to see that Leliana had killed her.

"I guess violence is the answer," she said, looking at him. "Sometimes."

He stood, pretending to brush dust off of his armor.

"Yes. It's a good thing you intervened. I was about to get cross with the demon."

Leliana stepped towards him, putting her hands on his shoulders and leaning in. For a second, he was reminded of the desire demon. But this was different. It was… pure, somehow.

She kissed him. Letting her lips join his for a far-too-few seconds. And she stepped back.

"What was that?" Lance asked. "Not that I'm complaining."

"You came back for me. You protected me," she said. "It's just like in one of the great romances of Orlais. You are my Chevalier."

"I wouldn't go that far," said Lance. He grinned, and was about to say something else when she vanished just as Alistair had.

"Well, great."

He felt himself being transported once more, unable to even feel anything while it happened. He landed himself in another nightmare, this time one belonging to Wynne.

She stood, silent, surrounded by the bodies of apprentice mages. Possibly her apprentices.

"This… I have failed," she said. Lance glanced over the scene.

"Wynne, this isn't real," he said. She scoffed at him.

"How can I not believe what I can see and feel? Leave me to my grief. I must bury their bones and scatter their ashes to the winds."

"You're kidding me, right?"

"I find your blatant disregard for the souls of the dead to be… inappropriate," she sighed, looking at the bodies. Then she turned on him. "And where were you? I trusted you, and you left these poor children to die!"

"Look, this isn't real," Lance said. "This is the Fade. Sloth, you remember?"

"I… wait… it sounds familiar. I can't think here. Perhaps I should go with you? To clear my head."

One of the apprentices was suddenly upright, and speaking.

"Don't leave us Wynne! Stay here!"

Lance found himself surprised beyond all belief. "Holy sodding shit."

He didn't wait for the kid to become a monster; he'd learned his lesson. He struck out, making the boy vanish, and he did the same to the remaining two undead apprentices. Wynne looked utterly aghast.

"Is it over?" she asked. "Can we leave? Thank the Maker for… wait-"

Wynne vanished, too. Lance hoped that they were all ending up in the same place and that he wouldn't spend the remainder of his dwindling life tracking them down.

And when he was removed from the island and placed elsewhere, it was little surprise that he would encounter the last of his companions.

"Hello, Morrigan," said Lance, stepping up the small incline to where she stood before her mother. Or at least a copy of Flemeth.

"Ah, Lance, there you are," said Morrigan. "Please rid me of this spirit. It cannot even provide a decent copy of Flemeth."

"You know it's fake?"

"Of course. Now kill it."

The fake Flemeth slapped Morrigan, angry. "How dare you say such a thing! I am your mother and you _will_ respect me!"

"That is more like it. But too little too late. Lance, if you please."

"One Flemeth Rending coming right up."

In another instant copy Flemeth was on the ground and Morrigan was looking rather satisfied.

"Now that we have finished that, we can get underway," she said. Lance had trouble looking at her directly, unable to not think of the Morrigan that had lusted for him. She caught onto that. "Why won't you look me in the eye? And why is your armor unbuckled? You are quite the slob."

"Sure, thing, sweetheart," said Lance. Before Morrigan could deliver a curse-laden response she disappeared.

"I'll be hearing about that later," Lance said. "Now, let's go. I haven't got the rest of the day here."

He vanished.

And he reappeared before Sloth, who looked rather perturbed.

"Insolent little worm," he said. "You just don't know when to quit. I was sure that I had you with the woman, but no."

"I'll be taking my leave of this place. If you don't mind."

"I tried very hard to keep you happy, to give you a place where you could remain peaceful. But you threw it all away. I'm so very, very hurt."

"I think I've got something for that," said Lance, raising his sword. Sloth chuckled.

"If that is how you want it, then so be it."

There was a sound behind Lance and he looked back to see that his friends had been transported there with him. And so had Morrigan.

"Well," he said to Sloth. "It's been fun."


	17. Uldred

Niall hadn't been able to come back with them. He said he'd already been there too long, that Sloth had drained his body of life. He was stuck in the Fade. He wanted them to take the Litany of Adralla from his corpse, to use it against Uldred.

Lance assured him that he'd died a hero.

He gingerly stepped over the bits and pieces that were left of Sloth, leaning over to pull the Litany of Adralla from Niall's pockets. He wasn't sure how to work it, but Wynne said he would know how when the time came. Right now it was time finish off Uldred.

And as Lance looked back at the dead Templars and mages on the floor near Sloth, he was pretty sure killing Uldred would feel alright.

They stepped out of the large room, heading for the highest point of the tower. Wynne was certain that Uldred would be there, that he would want to feel like a god as he tortured Irving and any other mage that had dared to face him. It was just like a narcissist.

Along the way they came across a Templar, trapped in some barrier, no doubt of Uldred's design. Lance was beginning to like this guy even less.

"Go away," the Templar said, covering his head. "I shall not be taken in by you illusions."

"Hey, we're real," Lance said, hoping to get the guy's head clear enough to glean some information from him. There was no way he was going to face Uldred blind.

"That's what the other ones said, before they took them. You shall not break me!"

"You're pretty dense, aren't you?"

The Templar hesitated, looking up at them. He seemed to doubt himself, unable to believe that real people had come to him finally. And then he accepted.

"You can't blame me for doubting," he said. "After the things I've seen… What are you doing here?"

"We're here to rescue survivors."

"Survivors? There are none. The blood mages have won here," said the Templar. "You must kill them all."

"Surely Irving and the others yet live," said Wynne. The Templar snarled at her.

"If they still live, then they are corrupted. The blood mages get into your minds. There's no way to describe the thoughts they worm into your head. Irving and the others are corrupted."

"You can't know that," said Lance. "How many went up there?"

"What? I don't know. A dozen, maybe. Irving and the others to face Uldred in the Harrowing Chamber."

"Uldred and his thralls are there, too?" Wynne asked. The Templar nodded. He wasn't too eager to speak to a mage.

"You have to kill them all," said the Templar. "It is the only way."

"His hatred of mages is palpable," said Alistair. "After what he watched them do to his friends it is understandable."

"I think he is right," said Morrigan. "If these so-called mages _allow_ themselves to be caged, why shouldn't they be exterminated?"

"Because we need their help?" Lance said. He couldn't believe that a woman as obviously smart as Morrigan could be so gods damned dense. "I don't really care what you're personal opinions on the matter are, but the bottom line is we have bigger fish to fry than fighting for the freedom of mages everywhere."

"Have it as you please," she said. "If only this _once_."

Lance shook his head and addressed the Templar.

"I will decide what course of action to take when I get there," he said. "Until then, sit tight. Not that you have a choice."

"You are a coward," said the Templar. "A dirty, rotten, coward of a man. You can't do what needs to be done. You child! You girl!"

"He really sucks at that," said Lance and he topped the steps to the Harrowing Chamber, girding himself for a battle with Uldred.

He couldn't really describe what he saw there. It was too difficult to really comprehend.

Uldred was doing… something to the mages. He looked the part of the evil mastermind, bald and pale and so on. He and two abominations flanking him holding another mage in midair. First Enchanter Irving sat in the corner of the chamber, with two other mages, all bound and incapable of doing anything.

Lightning and darkness and worse crackled around the mage, and unknowable horrors and promises coursed through his mind. It was poison of the worst sort. It was the very reason why the Chantry kept such a close eye on the mages. It was why Morrigan was called an 'apostate'.

The mage collapsed to the floor, lacking the strength to keep standing.

"Do you accept the gift I offer?" Uldred asked. The mage hesitated, still burning from the torture.

"Yes," he said. "Oh, Maker yes."

And then Uldred did something really awful. He picked the man with force of his will alone. He caused the man to convulse and to spasm and to bend and twist in ways that were impossible for any human.

He broke the man, completely and utterly. And then he had the man replaced.

Growths tore through the mage's clothes, muscle mass and corded flesh consuming him. He was turned from a mage, a man, into an abomination.

Uldred smiled, looking up at the newcomers.

"Ah, new playthings. Have you come to join in our revels?"

"No. Uldred I presume?" asked Lance. He tried to remain calm. He knew stories of the blood mages, likely just terror tactics to keep kids from misbehaving, but they were terrible. One had to clear their mind, not get distracted in order to fight the blood mages.

He couldn't let them in.

"Why have you done this, Uldred?" asked Wynne. "Blood magic? Are you without sense?"

"I merely claimed the power that you and Irving over there were far too cowardly to take," said Uldred. "This is the birthright of every mage. The power to control _everything_."

"It isn't right," said Wynne. "It is something that should have been locked away forever. All the pain and death you caused? Why? Have you no reason left in you?"

"I struck a blow for mages everywhere," said Uldred. "So long we kept ourselves in fear of such power, of such potential. I am the greatest of mages now, and Loghain recognizes that. He will support us."

"Loghain," Lance demanded. "He set this up? He told you he would back you up?"

"Of course. We have royal mandate now. To exterminate the Circle. The Templars cannot stop us. They wait in vain for reinforcements and scrolls that will never come."

"Maker help you, Uldred," said Wynne, leveling her staff. "You will need it in the end."

Lance charged forward, following a blast of energy from Wynne's staff. An abomination, the newly made one, blocked him from Uldred, but it didn't stand a chance.

Lance ducked low, sliding on the smooth floor of the chamber. An arrow sailed over him, landing in the abomination's center. Lance swept out with his sword, cutting away the leg of the creature.

He jumped to his feet, Uldred right in front of him. He leapt, sword aimed for the bastard's grinning face. And he was repulsed immediately, sent flying back into the far wall. He felt something in him crack.

It hurt worse than he could put into words, but he stood back up.

"Oh, no," he murmured. He could only watch on in mute terror as Uldred transformed into something. Something big. It was another abomination, but of the very strongest type. It was a physical embodiment of pride. It was the one that could destroy everything.

He laughed, a bass sound resounding throughout the chamber. It was simply terrifying to behold.

Leliana was suddenly by his side, arm around him to support him.

"You are hurt," she said, shouting over the roar of laughter. Morrigan backed up to them, keeping her staff ready to fire a magical burst at the nearest abomination.

"If you are going to do something," she shouted, still sounding suspiciously cheerful. "Now is the time to do it."

Wynne and Alistair were moving to face Uldred. Something that Lance couldn't let them do alone.

"Leliana," Lance said. "Fire on that piece of shit. Morrigan, cover me. I'm going right up the gut."

He put the pain in his ribs to the back of his mind. He had a job to do. And he was going to do it.

He ran, full speed. He called for Wynne and Alistair to separate, give him an opening. He was going to bury his sword as deep into Uldred's gut as he could get it, and the he was going to start stabbing some more.

The two abominations that still flanked Uldred were coming forward, to act as meat shields for the bastard. Lance kept low, allowing magic and arrows to smash the creatures away. He had an opening, however narrow.

He held his breath has jumped, assuring himself that he was a hero and heroes don't die when they do heroic things. Never mind all the dead heroes.

He hoped he could reach Uldred in time.

But no.

One massive pincer-like claw grabbed him even as he was closing the distance, it crushed him.

He cried out in pain. It was agonizing. The rib he'd broken or bruised was being crushed within him. What could he do? He was caught, and white hot pain forced out any constructive thinking he might have done.

_Notgonnamakeitgonnadie_

And Leliana called out, firing an arrow. He was only dimly aware that she was even in the room, eyes watering and mouth filling with copper. The arrow hit home, the head going neatly through Uldred's hand and into Lance's back.

Lance cried out again, but Uldred showed no sign of pain. He didn't even feel it.

Lance knew his will was breaking. He could feel the fingers of Uldred's corruption snaking his way inside. Could he survive? Could he last? He didn't know. He could try. But as the pain – the white hot all-consuming undeniable _pain_ – from his ribs grew stronger, he didn't care. He wanted it to end.

"_Do you accept the gift that I offer?"_

He tried to speak, felt blood dribble from his lips. This was bad.

"I…" he strained his mind to think past the pain, try to find some way out of there, to do something that would get him loose.

And he reached with his one free hand, grabbing from the pack on his belt the Litany of Adralla.

"Keep it," he groaned, and held the Litany up. It shined with a light he couldn't stand. It sent out beams of white luminescence at Uldred, forcing him from Lance's mind. He let go, and Lance fell to the floor.

He passed out from the pain.

He came to a few minutes later, barely able to comprehend what had happened. His head hurt, and he imagined that he'd cracked his head on the ground. Leliana came to him, leaning over and touching him gingerly.

"You're hurt," she said. He wanted to crack a smile and tell her that she was being rather obvious, but he just didn't have it in him.

"Uldred?" he rasped. It hurt to breathe. In his experience, that was a sure sign you were as messed up as one could be. At least it spared his face.

"Dead," said Leliana. "Alistair killed him. Quite graphically, I'm afraid."

Lance grunted, something he wished he'd not done. Someone stood over him, someone old.

"Hello there, young man," he said, weary and barely able to keep the conversation. Lance knew the feeling.

"Irving?" he whispered. It was a little less painful. The man nodded.

"I suppose you're to thank for saving us and killing Uldred. I can't think of any way to repay you."

"We are here to find aid to fight the Blight," said Leliana. She didn't want Lance to talk any more for fear of injury. He couldn't help but notice that no one was helping with magic or anything. It was usually a priority to heal wounded people, after all.

"You are Grey Wardens?" Irving asked. Leliana nodded.

"He is."

"Hey!" Alistair shouted. Lance tried to laugh, but it hurt too much.

"I see. Of course we shall assist you in any way possible," said Irving. "It is truly the very least we can do."

"That's great," said Leliana. "That's fantastic. Lance, the mages will aid us. We're on our way to an army."

He raised his hand, giving them the thumbs-up. He didn't want to talk any more.

"I suppose I should go tell Greagoir that the tower is ours once more?" said Irving. "Curse whoever insisted the Circle be housed in a tower with so many damnable stairs."

He walked off with his fellow mages, Wynne included. Lance made a noise of frustration, having been left injured on the floor.

"Can you sit up?" Leliana asked him. He tried it.

Short answer: no.

Long answer: Oh, hell no.

Morrigan stood over him, arms crossed.

"Well, look who is need of mean old Morrigan's help now," she said. Leliana frowned up at her.

"Please Morrigan, he is in pain. You know how to help him."

"Oh, I know enough," she replied. "He will still need rest and proper treatment. But I think I can do something for the pain."

She raised her hand over him, fingers outstretched. He felt his teeth vibrating, the pain ebbing away. She wasn't an expert healer, but she could do enough. Once they were back at camp he would need a proper bandaging. Assuming he didn't die of internal bleeding along the way.

They helped him to stand, the white pain now a dull ache.

Leliana supported him, and seemed completely thrilled to do so.

"That was so amazing," she said. "We did something worthy of song. Do you do this often? You must be quite the adventurer. And quite the man, if I may say so."

"Don't like to brag," said Lance, still feeling a tightness across his chest. "Being a blood mage must make your hands strong. He nearly choked me out."

Leliana giggled. "I am so glad that I was here to take part."

"That's funny," Lance said. "Because this happened to be quite a horrifying experience for me."

"Oh, you are exaggerating."

"'Dear Diary, today I fought creatures right out of my childhood nightmares, literally, and broke a rib. And Leliana thinks it was awesome.'"

"I didn't say that."

"But you meant it. I see it in your eyes."

He looked at her longingly for a moment. There was so much of her that was exactly like someone else he couldn't bear to think about. He didn't want to feel this way. It wasn't right. He was ashamed of it.

"Earlier," he said as they descended the stairs to the fourth floor of the tower. "When we were in the Fade and you, you know…"

"When I kissed you?"

"Yeah," said Lance. "Did you do that because I was there?"

"Yes. You were there for me. You've always been there for me."

"We just met yesterday," said Lance. "In the short time we've known each other that was the _only_ time I was there for you."

"But you were there, and that's what counts."

"I don't get it."

She sighed. "It is like a story, you know? You, the brave Chevalier charging an army of demons to save a woman."

"That's a pretty exaggerated depiction of events. As I recall, you didn't even know who I was at the time."

"But I knew your heart," she said. She looked away shyly, and Lance wondered what she meant by that. He was awful tempted to follow up on that, to press her for details. But Morrigan interrupted.

"Warden, might I have moment with you?"

"I'm only dying on my feet," he said. "So why not?"

Leliana stepped away politely; remaining just close enough that she could tend to Lance should his wounds prove to be more severe than they thought.

"I have a thought," said Morrigan. Lance tried to remain in good humor.

"Just the one?"

"Oh, you are hysterical. 'Tis a wonder you and mother have not already started a troupe and begun touring Thedas."

"What can I say? I try."

"Yes, well, more importantly," she said. "My mother often spoke, with great annoyance, of a particular Templar who divested her of a grimoire of great importance."

"You want to find this Templar and kill him?"

"This was many years ago. Before either of us had even been conceived," she said.

"Don't say 'conceived'."

"Anyway, I would very much like to find it," said Morrigan. Lance tried to shrug, found that even with healing magic it was a step too far.

"What would you do with it?"

"Grow more powerful, of course," she said. With a wicked smirk she added, "Thus increasing my ability to be of use to you."

"I have no illusions that you are of use to anyone but you," said Lance. Morrigan chuckled, inclined to agree.

"Regardless, it would mean very much to me if I could have it."

"What makes you think it's even here, it was so long ago?"

"'Twas my mother's grimoire, of more than passing interest to any of these mages, and yet so much more powerful than they could comprehend."

"So you want to bet that they locked it away to keep the other mages from learning something they don't want them to know?"

"Precisely."

"I suppose we could take a quick look around. I don't know where to start, though."

"The First Enchanter's quarters, obviously," said Morrigan. "Where else would you store a tome of such immense power?"

"Whatever," said Lance. "I suppose this isn't something that can wait until I've stopped hacking up my own blood?"

"No."

Lance stepped away from the wall, trying to walk on his own and failing. Leliana caught him.

"You should get back to camp immediately," she said. "You can barely walk."

"I'm okay, for the time being."

"We have more important tasks to attend to," said Morrigan. "Now kindly leave us."

"No, stay," said Lance. "I need the help. And I'll have a witness in case she offs me."

Morrigan gave a disgusted sigh and led the way. The First Enchanter's quarters were just as messy as the rest of the tower, and finding anything would be an exercise in futility. Morrigan went ahead nonetheless.

She began rifling through a pile of books, flipping through the pages as though the grimoire were hidden in one. What a nut.

Lance had Leliana help him over to a fat chest sitting on a shelf near Irving's desk. He flipped it open. A number of papers filled it, arcane writings and descriptions of potions and such.

But there was something else there, hidden under the papers. A black book, leather bound. The pages were yellowed with age, and Lance felt actual revulsion as he picked it up. Just imagine all the children sacrificed over this damn book.

He snickered at that, eliciting a confused look from Leliana.

"Morrigan," he said, trying to turn around. "Is this what you're looking for?"

She glanced up from the books, having put several in her pack, and her eyes lit up. He would never have called Morrigan a happy girl, she was certainly cheery in her own dark and brooding way, but this one moment was quite… unbelievable.

Beyond belief.

Incapable of being believed.

She squealed in joy as she ran to him, something he would have expected from Leliana, and she took the grimoire from his hands, examining it.

"This is Flemeth's Grimoire," she said. "Oh, 'tis my luckiest day! I shall begin deciphering its secrets immediately."

She looked up at Lance, smiling. _Smiling_. It was altogether disturbing.

"You must want something in return?" she asked. "A reward, yes?"

"Uh, no? Why would I?" he asked. It wasn't as though he'd accepted it as some sort of quest. It was a personal favor, no? Why would he require more than a thank you?

"Nothing in this world comes free," she said. "Surely you, a Grey Warden, must know this. You have given me what I sought for, and now you will take something from me in return. What is it?"

Lance glanced at Leliana, eyebrow cocked. She looked about as confused as he did.

"You're kidding me, right?"


	18. Nusemaids and Witches

Morrigan had alternated between annoyed and ecstatic all the way back to camp. Annoyed that Lance had yet to demand a reward from her. Ecstatic that she'd finally gotten one over on her mother.

Irving and Greagoir were satisfied that the tower was clean and that the demons and abominations were dead. Irving had of course been only too glad to pledge his mages to the cause and began the process of rounding up enough experienced mages to march at the Warden's command. Lance felt a bit queasy at the prospect of leading these men and women.

Wynne had asked to travel with the Wardens, eager to do what good she could for the world at large. Lance suspected she held a grudge against the Darkspawn for what they'd done to the army at Ostagar. He didn't blame her.

Irving was hesitant to let such a powerful mage leave when they needed her most, but he was inclined to support her decision. Lance was glad for her help. Morrigan, less so.

They'd decided to wait until they returned to camp before fixing Lance's wounds, something that worried him greatly. He was no healer, but wasn't it obvious to treat an injured person as soon as possible?

"Ouch," he said, giving Morrigan a harsh look. She was wrapping the bandage around his chest, having diagnosed him with a cracked rib. She lacked the delicate touch.

"Stop it," she said. She tugged the bandage taut, causing him to yelp at the sharp pain.

"Have you ever done this before?"

"Not to a man, no," she said. He didn't ask for details. She pulled the bandage harder, and he felt his whole body jerked by the action.

"Shouldn't Wynne be doing this? Damn."

"If you'd rather trust your life to some old crone, likely on her own deathbed, so be it. I, however, am more than capable of seeing to any of your physical needs."

"I bet," he said, thinking back to the desire demon. She smiled at him, that bittersweet look that said he wouldn't like what she had to say next.

"I meant precisely what you are inferring," she said. Lance frowned a bit.

"This is about the grimoire, isn't it?"

"Yes," she said. The bandage was in place, but she still sat next to him. He didn't like being that close to her. He reached to grab his shirt, suddenly uncomfortable with her proximity and his lack of armor.

"Don't," she said, stopping his hand. She looked at him, something in her eyes, on her features. What was it? It wasn't the same acid with which she had regarded him near constantly. It wasn't some secret mischief she was playing at. It was… honesty? Could she muster up honesty now?

"You don't owe me," he said. She shook her head.

"I do. I swear I do. You have been alone for some time now, yes? You do not have to be…"

"Leave me alone," said Lance. She looked away, almost ashamed. Perhaps she thought he was enraptured by her beauty, captivated by her womanly charms. It was not the case. Though he was, in many respects.

It was a man thing, he assured himself. Perfectly natural. That's why he had to fight it.

"Let me," she said, and she took his shirt away from him. "I can… clean it? Mend it for you?"

"In trade for the grimoire?"

"No. Because I wish to help you. Really."

Lance held his tongue. He so wanted to say something mean, to give her what she deserved. Why shouldn't he? She had no problem twisting the knife. He couldn't resist.

"Thank you, Morrigan," he said finally.

She hesitated. Was she so unused to such niceties?

"I… you are welcome."

She looked up at him, weary. She put a hand on his shoulder. It was warm. He rather liked it. Her eyes were so beautiful. She was so pretty, and so… vulnerable at that moment. He wanted to reach out to her, to touch her, to brush that errant strand of hair back behind her ear. He wanted to say something to her. Something bold, noble. Something to tell her that she was important to him, even if he didn't know why. He wanted to say anything, just to get the chance to talk to her.

Her hand squeezed him gently, and he thought back to that demon, how it had looked so much like her. How he nearly gave in to it. How it had told him that he really wanted the sorceress, the witch. And did he?

She leaned in closer, closer than they'd ever been. His heart was pounding. He could feel it in his ears. He didn't know what to do.

"You are bleeding through the bandage," she said.

"Hm?"

"The wound in your shoulder is bleeding again," she said. He liked the way she said that.

"Is it now?"

"Yes. You are hurt."

"I am."

"I think the girl shot you."

"Huh?"

He craned his neck, looked at his shoulder. It was indeed bleeding through the bandage. Morrigan reached out to touch the wound, poking it lightly.

"Ouch," he said. "Don't do that."

"Oh… child."

She reached down to grab more bandages, shaking her head. He looked over at Leliana, where she sat by the camp fire. She rushed to his side immediately, smiling, eager to help.

"Did you shoot me?" he asked. The blood drained from her face.

"Um… no."

"I'm bleeding. From an arrow hole. In my back."

Morrigan thought it was quite funny. She laughed. He didn't think it was at all humorous.

He'd been shot in the back by one of his companions.

"It was when Uldred held you," she said. "I am sorry."

"It's alright," said Lance. "I'm not mad. Hurts like hell though."

He winced. Both because Morrigan had again poked the wound and because he didn't mean to curse in front of the ladies. Golden rule of polite society: clean up the language around the women folk.

Leliana knelt down near him, putting her lips against the freshly bandaged wound. Lance tensed up, back going rigidly straight. Morrigan rolled her eyes, making a soft gagging noise.

Leliana pulled away from him, putting her hands at his neck gently.

"Salty," she said. "You should try to eat more vegetables."

"I will… take that under advisement," said Lance, still rigid despite the pain in his ribs.

"I will make you something to eat," she said. "You haven't had anything to eat in a long while."

She rushed off, going to procure the necessary items from her tent and pushing Alistair away from the pot on the fire.

"I think you have an admirer," said Morrigan, ruefully.

"Huh? Leliana?"

"Do not be so stupid," said Morrigan. "She worships the ground on which you walk. She looks at you when you do not see it. She desires you."

"I'm a desirable man," said Lance, cracking wise. Morrigan poked his rib.

"I mean she _desires_ you. You can practically smell her."

"That's disgusting. You need to stop it right there."

"Oh, please. 'Tis impossible for a man to be so oblivious. Men will believe, for any reason, that a woman finds him attractive. In your case 'tis true."

Lance let out a laugh. It hurt.

"You're attracted to me?"

"Leliana is attracted to you," she said. "'Tis… strange to see. She is so enamored by you. She would walk anywhere with you."

"You think she is in love?"

"She is a child and believes in love, yes."

"She thinks the Maker sent me to her. Or sent her to me."

"Ah, there you have it. She comes from religion. A stifling, upsetting religion that keeps its supplicants from feeling the natural instincts that we were so born with. She would probably jump into bed with the first man that offered. You just happened to be that first man."

"Stop. Seriously. I don't… want that."

"What man doesn't? You are a man, she a woman. Pretty, in her own way. You would be a liar to say that you do not want the same from her."

"I don't," he said. "And it's the Maker's honest truth."

"You lie," she said in sing-song. "I see it in you. Your eyes betray you. You watch her. You long for her."

"I don't," he said. "Not for her."

"Oh? Well that is rather _juicy_. Please do share."

Lance hesitated. Did she really want to know? Was she just fishing for something to use against him? Was he just kidding himself by even considering letting her know something about him that he didn't tell anyone else?

Who gave a damn?

"There was a girl. Back home," he looked back at her, noting the interested expression. She wasn't fishing for weapons, apparently. She was being a human being.

"You were physical, you two?"

"More than that."

"Ah," she said, suddenly a bit disappointed in him. "Children playing love games."

"I suppose so. I don't know if I loved her. I just can't get her out of my head, you know? Leliana is just so much like her and it kills me."

"You can return to her, can you not?"

"No," said Lance. Morrigan wanted to ask another question, thought about it, and remembered what he'd said about losing his family. She didn't say anything.

"I just wish I could go back," said Lance. "I just wish I hadn't taken it all for granted. I wish I hadn't even heard of the Darkspawn."

"What happened? If you do not mind my asking."

"Arl Rendon Howe betrayed my family."

"What will you do now?"

"First, I'm gonna stop this Blight. Then, I'm gonna hurt him. Bad."

"I see. 'Tis a good thing. I would… I would be happy to join you, if you would allow it."

Lance looked at her again, curious. Was this more of that "ask for a reward" crap? It wasn't. She was sincere. She was honest, open. He didn't know what to make of it.

He liked it.

Another tense moment, another moment where he wanted to talk to her, to touch, to even kiss her. But he couldn't.

"You aren't like her," he said. She looked surprised by the statement.

"The girl?"

"Her. And Marna. You aren't like either of them."

"I should be pleased. It is good to know that you are an original. I suppose."

She was flustered, uncomfortable. Lance knew the feeling. She was flushed, and she was pretty. He wanted something, he realized. He didn't care that she was rude, that she regarded him with equal parts hostility and disgust. He didn't care that he'd met her in the woods, for Maker's sake. He wanted something from her.

She looked back, eyes filled with the passion that characterized her every move. She was so fiery, so free. He liked it. She was so unlike any woman he'd known, ever. He swallowed, hard.

Morrigan, too, was unsure of herself. She'd never been afraid of a man in her life; her mother had taught her not to be. But why was she so put off guard by this man? Was it that he casually traded barbs with her? His earnestness, his honesty? He didn't lie to her; he didn't belittle her if he could help it. They had no reason to trust each other but he accepted her completely, utterly.

He was smart, dashing. He was everything she imagined a Grey Warden should be. And he was hurt, deeply, deeper than she'd ever known a man could be. And she wanted to be there, to fill the void. She was jealous of Leliana, how he looked to her for the support of a woman.

"What appeal does she have?" Morrigan asked.

"Huh?"

"The girl. What makes you fond of her?"

"I don't know," he said. He reached back to casually rub the back of his head. "She's nice. She wants to be near me? I feel like I'm wanted when I'm next to her."

He chuckled lightly.

"Now that you mention it, I think I am kind of infatuated with her."

"I see…"

Lance hesitated. He shouldn't have said that, the look on her face told him he shouldn't have said that.

"I mean, she's just so sweet to me. I can't help but want her back."

"And you do not wish a woman who is…"

"Like you?"

"Like me."

"I didn't say that."

"But 'tis true."

"…No."

He felt like a child again, unable to talk the girl. He was no longer the bored noble, the would-be warrior. He was free from that, and he was a man now. And he wanted a woman. A woman like Morrigan.

He looked up sharply, seeing Leliana approach, a bowl in her hands.

"Here," she said. "Eat up. You need your strength."

"Thank you," he said, accepting the bowl. Morrigan stood, and Lance wished he could ask her to stay. Leliana sat next to him, cautiously resting her hands on his knee.

"I should go and work on mother's grimoire. I thank you for this conversation," said Morrigan. "It was most… enlightening."

Lance nodded to her, and watched with regret as she left to return to her own tent, so far away from the camp proper.

"I need to tell you something," said Leliana. Lance took a mouthful of her potato stew. It was pretty good. He guessed that they ate well in Orlais.

"Anything," Lance said, putting the bowl to his lips and tilting his head back. He was ravenously hungry.

"I was a bard before I was in the Chantry," she said. Lance made a sound.

"I gathered as much. The singing, the talk of stories, the natural grace with a weapon," he said. "It's obvious."

"Oh. Well, then I have something else to tell you."

"Mm?"

"You let me come along with you, even though you had no reason to," she said. "I owe you honesty."

What was it with these people and their debts?

"I was a bard in Orlais."

"A spy, you mean?"

"Yes. More than that really. I was good at what I did."

"I can tell. You are a very good shot when you aren't poking me in the back."

"I'm sorry. But I mean that I was working for someone. A woman."

He wanted to her to cut to the chase. He didn't want to hear her rattle on about being a bard, not if there was something she felt was important for him to know.

"Her name was Marjolaine."

"Tell me," he said, putting the empty bowl aside. She reached out to take it, to serve him more. He stopped her. "Tell me."

"It was my last mission for her. I was sent to procure some documents from a man. I killed him and took what I needed. They were sealed, and important."

"You got curious?"

"Of course. I looked, and I found that Marjolaine had been had been selling information on Orlais to other countries."

"Isn't that what bards do?"

"Yes, but… Marjolaine was my friend. There was nothing I wouldn't have done for her. I loved her."

"What happened?"

"I told her that I was afraid for her. That I was scared that she would be caught. She betrayed me. She altered the documents to make it look like _I_ was the traitor, and she turned the guards on me."

Lance saw her eyes tear up. He could only imagine how she felt, and he tried to comfort her. He put an arm around her, holding her rather close.

"They do so many terrible things to make you confess," she said. "I escaped when I could, and I came here."

"You were hiding in that Chantry, in Lothering."

She nodded. He held her tight, wanting her to feel better. She was shaking. It explained a lot. It was why she was so eager to serve him, why she was so close to him. She wanted his protection, to feel like she was safe finally.

"The Maker guided me to you," she said. "I think he knew I could finally be safe here. With you."

Lance shifted, a bit uncomfortable. He still had his arm around her and she seemed to like that very much. He didn't want to ruin it.

"Don't get too used to it," he warned. "With a Blight on, we might not be safe for much longer."

"I just wanted to get it all off of my chest," she said. "Thank you for listening. Would you like me to bring you a shirt?"


	19. Chicken for Breakfast

"I hope your ribs are healing," said Morrigan. Lance was lying back, using his pack as a pillow. He was by her tent, if it could so be called. Leliana had refused to allow them to move on for fear that he was not entirely healed. He couldn't help but notice that no one had cared that much about him in the Circle tower.

"I'm fine," he said. "I want to get moving."

She was tending to a chicken roasting on the fire, one that Lance had hoped to steal breakfast from. Leliana had insisted that she be allowed to cook him something, no matter how much he protested. He convinced her that he could find his own breakfast, if only this once. He'd found it, though Morrigan was loathe to share.

Morrigan picked up a long stick, using it to poke him in the ribs. He yelped in pain, and she laughed.

"Fine indeed."

"Andraste, you're such a nice person," Lance said. She smiled, smug.

"Oh, you know it."

"I'm so glad your time in the Wilds has made you the better."

"Yes, well, when a girl isn't running from Templars she has plenty of time to learn manners, now doesn't she?"

He sat up as best he could, now curious.

"Chased by Templars?"

"Oh, yes. Every so often fool Templars, not unlike your Alistair, would stumble into the Korcari Wilds in order to hunt mother and I."

"Maker, that's horrible."

"'Twas a game," said Morrigan. "Or at least my mother made it such."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"Oh, yes. I was but a young girl," she said. "I didn't understand the danger we were in."

"Apparently not. Your mother made it a game? That's awful."

"Was it? What would have been better; cowering in fear?"

"No. I think living in a house made of stuff you didn't find laying around would have been better."

"You think your world is so much better? 'Tis a cold, cruel world. Your own past must tell you at least as much."

"Point taken," said Lance, a little upset that she could be so matter-of-fact about something that was forever burned into his mind. He supposed he might have come across the same way, making light about her life in the Wilds, about being chased by Templars.

"I am sorry," Morrigan said. "I forgot how keenly you feel the loss of your family."

"Not your fault. Probably time I got over it, right? It's not manly for me to angst about it."

"If you feel as such," she said. She was having a hard time saying it, he could tell. It was sort of sweet to see. "I would not hold it against you. I can understand the desire for revenge."

"Thanks," he said. He looked at her, thoughtful. She was still so pretty. She caught his gaze, but he kept on watching her.

"You look at me like that," she said. "What do you think?"

"About you?"

"Yes."

"I think I like what I see."

She glanced away. He knew it was cheesy, but he couldn't help himself. It was honest, at least. He thought again about the false Morrigan, her desire. He wondered if it was at all close to the real thing, if Morrigan would ever do that for him.

"I wish to ask you something," she said. "If it would not offend you overmuch."

"Shoot. So to speak."

"What was your mother like?"

Lance didn't know how to answer her. He looked at her, laying back down on his pack. She was earnest, sincere. She really wanted to know. Although to what end he couldn't tell. But he thought back to his mother anyway.

"I loved her," he said at last. "What else do you want to know?"

She stared, speechless for a moment. She looked away shyly, something he would never have expected from her.

"Nothing," she said. She struggled for another moment, unable to speak. Then, "I am envious, in all honesty."

"Your mother, Flemeth," he said. "She was… not the best?"

"I do not know. I have nothing with which to compare. We had a difficult life, yes. But I think she did her best," said Morrigan. "I like to think so."

"And that's why you're trying to steal her grimoire? Because she did her best?"

"I know not what you mean."

"When you told me about the grimoire," he said, crossing his arms, despite the hurt. "You said it would make _you_ more powerful. You didn't say anything about giving it back to Flemeth."

"Ah. I see. I have no intention of returning it to Flemeth, no," she said. He looked over at her, and he knew why it was he liked her. He pitied her. He could see it on her face. As she turned the chicken on the spit, she was somewhere else, thinking. She was only so mean and vindictive because her mother had raised her as such.

"Morrigan, is it true? About your mom. Is she really the Flemeth from the old tales?"

She shrugged.

"'Tis possible. Flemeth would tell it as such. I do not really know. She is a powerful sorceress. And the Chasind do call us witches."

"She seemed nice, roughly, when we met her," said Lance. Morrigan laughed lightly, as if dispelling some jealousy from herself.

"Of course. She wanted something from you," said Morrigan. "Why wouldn't she be nice to you?"

"What did she want from us?"

"From you. She wanted you to take me along."

"Oh. Why?"

"I do not know. Rarely do I ever know the true extents of my mother's plots."

"So she could be plotting away, using us both for some nefarious end?"

Morrigan laughed. "Yes, she is found of plotting."

She prodded the chicken a bit more, checking that it was cooked thoroughly. He was glad that she was a good cook. Or else he'd have to suffer through Alistair's breakfasts. That is, when Leliana wasn't insistent that he eat some flowery Orlesian thing. The pastries she made were good, though.

"Breakfast is ready," said Morrigan. "If you still want it."

"I do."

She sliced off some meat for herself, putting it in a ceramic bowl that Lance was sure had come from his tent. He didn't bother to argue the point though. He was still lying down, quite comfortable.

"Do you want it or not?" Morrigan asked, slicing off a wing.

"I do."

"Then eat."

"Feed me," said Lance, smiling. He thought it was a funny thing to say. Morrigan would pitch a fit and he would get a laugh out of it.

"I will not," she said. She took a mouthful of the meat, and chewed loudly, making fun of him. "'Tis most delicious. My best work yet."

"Feed me," Lance said. He laughed at her. "Come on, Morrigan. I'm injured and hungry. Feed me."

"Ask the girl. She would be glad to."

"You fed my dog."

"You saw that?"

"Yes. Sweetheart."

"Stop it. I fed _him_ because he is _a dog_. And as hound-like your predilections may be, you are not a dog. Mostly."

"Come on. Feed me."

"Do you plan on using your owed reward on this?"

"No. Now feed me," he said. He gave her his best shit-eating grin and she returned it.

"Oh, very well," she said, and she took a piece of meat from the bowl, holding it delicately between two fingers. She leaned over him, smiling like he'd never seen. She held out forcing him to crane his neck to get at it. She was careful to keep her fingers away from his mouth; for fear that he might bite her in jest.

"Thank you," he said around a mouthful of chicken. "But I wanted a wing."

"You will take what I allow you to have."

"Promise?"

"Hm."

"That sounds…" he let it hang in the air, suddenly guilty at his innocent flirtation. He couldn't keep doing this to himself. He knew it was irrational, but he just couldn't help it. He missed Marna so deeply, so sincerely with every part of himself, and to be here, torn between two women, it just seemed so damn _wrong_.

"You are upset," said Morrigan. "I can see it quite plainly. Why? Are you… dissatisfied with something?"

"I was just thinking. Of how things were."

"Oh. I meant what I said before. You must put it behind you. 'Tis a weakness that will consume your soul if you do not stop it now."

"I know. But I don't want it to go," he said. She looked curious, eager to be indulged.

"I do not understand."

"It's a part of me. I need it. It's like… fuel. It reminds me who I am. It's warm, it's good. It hurts, sometimes more than I can bear it, but I want it. I want to remember. I want to hate. I want it to stay, to rot, to fester within me so that when I confront Arl Howe I can use it. I can make him suffer, just as I. I can do everything that I need to do to keep going as long as I hate."

"That is… unusual," she said. "To say the least."

"I don't expect you to understand. I just… I want you to know. That's all."

"Why? Why tell me? I was quite under the impression that we were not on the best of terms."

"I don't know. It's something else I can't explain. But I just felt like I needed you to know that about me. I just want you to know who I am."

"But why? I do not understand," she asked. She scooted over to be closer to him, putting more of the roasted chicken in his mouth as she spoke. "Why do you want _me _to know?"

"Ask me later."

"When?"

"When I know the answer."

"You are a strange man, Lance Cousland."

He opened him mouth, letting her drop in more food for him to eat. She laughed a bit as she used her thumb to wipe away a line of grease from his chin, putting the thumb to her mouth and licking it away. Lance smiled to himself, a bit embarrassed.

Leliana approached, apparently having seen the display. She was smiling sweetly, humming softly. Lance recognized the tune.

Heh. What were the chances of that?

"_Last Ride of the Chevalier_," he said aloud. "Composed by Severin Sicard. A piece from the famed play."

"You are a patron of the arts?" asked Leliana, sitting down to be near him. He shook his head.

"Father was," he said. And he realized the look he must have had, seeing it reflected in her face.

"I am sorry," she said. "I had no idea."

"Don't be. You couldn't have known. Finish it," he said. "I'd like to hear you finish it."

She continued humming. Morrigan didn't move, didn't say anything. There was a sort of understanding between them, that unspoken agreement that he just _needed _this right now. And she respected that. And he thought that maybe she wasn't so bad. Maybe there was something just beneath her surface, something pure and good.

He hoped so.

Leliana hummed the tune. And Lance closed his eyes, unable to hold back the tears that slipped free. Quietly, Leliana wiped them away and she moved so that his head was in her lap. She reached out, took the bowl from Morrigan and she put the food to his mouth, feeding him like Morrigan had.

And Morrigan looked at the Warden and Leliana with envy, wishing that their places were changed and she continued studying the grimoire.


	20. Sky Monsters

"I swear it landed over here," said Lance to Alistair, pushing their way through the thick brush. "I saw it."

"You saw something fall from the sky? And you want to _find_ it? You must have taken quite the beating indeed."

It had been nearly a week since the Circle incident and Lance was feeling a little more like his old self. His wounds were healing and although his chest still felt a little tight he was sure it was nothing that he couldn't work through.

It was early in the morning, when he and Alistair had been on watch, swapping dirty jokes, that he saw something streak across the sky, landing not too far from the camp. Lance was eager to find it.

Alistair had insisted that they at least tell someone that they were leaving and Lance relented. Their choices were slim. Morrigan would just be pissed at him for waking her, Leliana would want to come along, and so Wynne was the obvious choice. He felt bad for ruining an old woman's sleep, but he was too eager to find the shooting star.

"I hope you know what you are getting into," she warned. "Don't expect me to pull you out of the fire, should it turn out to be a sky monster."

"Sky monster?" Alistair chuckled. "You're having me on aren't you?"

"Oh, no. Sky monsters are real. They descend from the stars from time to time, eager to snatch up unsuspecting humans, to take them back to their sky ships."

"No way," said Alistair. "I think I would have heard of something like that."

"Go and see for yourself. If you return then I will know if it was indeed a sky monster."

"Come on," Lance urged. "We have to hurry before we lose it!"

And so they were cutting through the sparse wilderness near the Lake, and hurrying to find out about these sky monsters that Lance was mostly sure Wynne had made up. Mostly.

"Are you sure you even know where it is?" asked Alistair. "It could be a million miles away for all you know."

"Or it could be right at the base of that smoke column," Lance insisted. Alistair sighed.

"Alright, lead on."

Lance had been right, much to Alistair's chagrin. The smoke began at a crater, the likes of which Lance had never seen. In his reckoning there was nothing on their world that could do such a thing.

"What is that?" asked Alistair, pointing down into the crater. "It's a rock. A sky rock."

"Maybe the sky monsters are in sky rock form?"

"Or maybe this sky rock and those sky monsters have nothing to sky-do with each other."

They laughed, figuring that old Wynne was just pulling their legs after all.

"Look, Marta," they heard from nearby. Lance glanced around and saw a pair of farmers standing on the far side of the crater. They were holding something between them. A baby, Lance realized.

"I don't know how any living thing could have survived that," said Marta. "Oh, Jon the Maker has answered our prayers."

"Five fingers, five toes," said Jon. "That's all I care about. Let's take him home, Marta, and raise the tyke as our own."

The two left, heading in a direction opposite the camp. Alistair and Lance looked at each other.

"You're kidding me, right?"

They laughed out loud, taking turns nudging the other's shoulder. Lance insisted that they explore the crater some more.

"C'mon," he said. "I've been bedridden in that camp for days now. I want some adventure."

"Well it is so much a hassle to be bedridden with our lovely peanut farming lay sister, now isn't it?" he said, poking Lance in his still-tender ribs. "Honestly, isn't the whole Blight thing enough excitement for you? Must you really go and put yourself nose-to-nose with danger?"

"What can I say? I'm just the type of guy do stuff. It's out of my hands, really."

"Oh, that I can see."

Lance carefully stepped down into the crater, gasping quietly at the heat it was still putting out. Glass crunched lightly underfoot.

"Look," he said, pointing at the sky rock's center. There something shimmered. It was metallic, but it was a glowing sort of metallic. He certainly hadn't seen anything like it.

"Well don't touch it," said Alistair, refusing to come down from the lip of the crater. "You don't know if it's dangerous."

"What's the worst that could happen?"

"You could spend the rest of your life in bed pissing blood."

Lance had nothing he could say to that. Instead he took a cautious step towards the rock, reaching out to touch it. It was very hot, and he didn't dare put his fingers to it.

"It's a huge chunk of metal," said Lance. "Like some kind of ore."

"Sky ore?"

"Heh. Yeah."

He drew his dagger, carefully using it to dig out the metal ore. He knew it was a dumb idea, but he couldn't leave without a souvenir. Besides, who knew if it might come in handy some day? He'd never seen anything like it. Maybe he could find a smith somewhere capable of working the stuff.

He held the ore in his hand, and then he dropped it with a shout.

"Damn that's hot!"

"I told you not to touch it," said Alistair, grinning wide.

He picked it up again, juggling it between both his hands to keep from burning himself. He tried to climb up the side of the crater that way.

"Open your pack," said Lance holding out the rock. It burned like hell.

"I don't want it!"

"Just open you're pack. And hurry."

He did so, rather reluctantly, and Lance dropped it in. Alistair complained about melted cheese or some such. He slung it over his shoulder anyways.

"Do you think Wynne will believe the sky rock story?" Alistair asked.

"Well she'll have to, won't she?"

"I don't suppose we can trick her into thinking we got it from a sky monster?"

They laughed again.


	21. Zevran

They were headed south, to Redcliffe, at Alistair's insistence. Lance had asked why it was so important they meet with this Arl Eamon if his support was already guaranteed.

"It's just…" Alistair was hesitant. Lance could sense some deeper story there, and he was curious to know. "He sort of raised me."

"How do you mean? You're nobility?"

He hesitated some more, choosing his words carefully. It was odd to see. He hadn't known Alistair to choose not to talk, or to choose his words at all, but here he was, acting so evasive.

"Look, you don't have to tell me. Not if you don't want to."

"It's just that… I'm a bastard."

He caught the sharky grin on Lance face and held up one finger to silence him.

"I mean the fatherless kind," he said. Lance snickered regardless. Morrigan, who had thus far been eavesdropping, also laughed.

"So, Eamon's your daddy?"

"No. Not at all," said Alistair. Lance could tell by his scowl that he wanted this conversation to be dead serious. He glanced over at Morrigan, wordlessly asking her to be understanding. She looked away dismissively, letting him know that their chat was beneath her.

"Who were your parents?"

"I know who my father is supposed to have been and my mother was a maid."

"She worked in the castle?"

"Yes."

It was a story he'd heard before, and knew fairly well. A castle servant catches the eye of a noble, the two meet for some illicit sex and nine months later…

He thought about Marna again, wondering what would have happened to them if they'd been allowed to continue, wondering if they might have had the opportunity to raise a family together. He would have forsaken his family name for her, to raise a baby with her. He would have done it all for her.

But this wasn't his turn to bemoan his past. This was about Alistair. And Lance had to be there for him.

"Who was your father?"

"You're not really going to make me tell, are you?" he asked. He was very evasive, and apparently was afraid of Lance knowing about his parentage. Lance didn't understand; if he was a son, illegitimate or not, of a noble, then he had a birthright. He didn't need to have been raised by the Chantry as a Templar. He didn't need to become a Grey Warden.

It wasn't like his family had been slaughtered, like he had been betrayed by a trusted family friend and vassal, lost everything that he ever-

Stop it.

"If you don't want to you don't have to. I won't think less of you."

"How could any less be thought of him?" Morrigan asked. Lance glared at her, making his dissatisfaction with her behavior known. She shrugged. "'Twas too easy."

Alistair and Lance stepped further away from her.

"I just… when I tell people they start treating me differently," said Alistair. "They pity me or they start acting funny or Maker knows what."

"Is that why Duncan made you come to the Tower with me?" Lance asked. He knew that the topic was hard for Alistair, but he had to know. Alistair nodded, looking down at his shoes.

"Yes. He thought I was… too important to risk."

"Alistair, what in the hell are you talking about?"

"My father was King Maric."

Lance's breath caught in his throat. Morrigan stared on in mute shock. Lance felt himself shake a bit. Alistair gods Damned Theirin! Cailan's brother, Maric's son. Heir to the sodding throne of Ferelden!

Lance was standing before the King of Ferelden. He'd been living with the King of Ferelden! He'd called the King of Ferelden a dork! Here they were, the illegitimate king, the last Cousland, together. Holy Shit.

Alistair stared back at Lance, his discomfort palpable. He could sense Lance's awe, his disbelief, his utter inability to speak.

And then, "So you're a royal bastard?"

"I knew that was coming."

"You should have."

Alistair relaxed, laughing a bit. "I should have told you earlier. I don't know why I didn't. I guess I just preferred you to think that I was just a Grey Warden who was too lucky to die with the rest."

"No, I don't think that."

"Then maybe I was just lucky enough to survive with you?"

Lance couldn't say anything to that. He put his hand on Alistair's shoulder, shaking him as a comrade. It was a powerful feeling. He wanted to tell Alistair that he felt the same, that he would die alongside him, if only because they'd come close to it already.

He glanced back at Morrigan who seemed to disapprove.

"Alistair," Lance said, still looking at Morrigan.

"Yes, friend?"

"That's so gay."

They laughed, a good hearty thing, and Lance felt his chest swell with pride. Or with fluid that would slowly collapse his lungs and cause him to suffocate from the inside. One or the other.

Morrigan rolled her eyes and yet couldn't keep from smiling. She had such a wonderful smile.

"So, this Arl Eamon," Lance said. "He raised you, you said?"

"Yes. My mother died when I was young and my father was unable to raise me. Something about running a kingdom or some such. Oh, and death."

"You're very nonchalant about it," said Lance. Alistair shrugged.

"It doesn't mean a whole lot to me," he said. "I just never cared too much about it. Plus I've had decades to get used to the idea."

"Oh, okay."

"I don't want this to change our working relationship," Alistair said, back peddling now. "I just thought you should know, is all."

"It's no problem. My Prince."

"Oh, here we go," Alistair said with a chuckle. "I just knew this was a bad idea."

"Whatever you say, your Majesty."

"You aren't going to quit are you?"

"Does my candor offend you, my liege?"

And Alistair went laughing back to where Wynne stood, striking up a conversation with her. He had bonded with the old mage, seeing in her a mother figure that he'd always lacked. Lance suddenly felt pity for his companion. He realized then that he wasn't the only hurt member of the group, wasn't the only one who had felt loss.

There was something good in that, as horrible as it was. There was friendship, companionship there. And they were stronger for it.

They were still some distance from Redcliffe, and Lance wished he had a horse. It would have made traveling infinitely easier. He wondered if Morrigan had ever seen horses, if it would be something that would impress her.

And why did that matter? Was he some boy, playing stupid love games now? She was a woman, he a man, and they were only together because her mother had sent her along. There was nothing there, no substance. Maybe they would one day be able to recount traveling with one another, the strange mannerisms they saw in each other, but that was it.

He recalled even more fondly the desire demon.

"Lance," Leliana had come from the back to talk to him. She was very much interested in him, he realized, and he wondered if he should pursue her. She reminded him of Marna, and that killed him, but maybe they could still be together?

Oh, what was he even thinking? Leliana wasn't interested in being the plaything of a noble while on the road. A girl like her wanted true love, _deserved_ true love. And he didn't know if he loved her. And that wasn't fair to her.

"Lance?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I was just asking if your wounds were healed."

"Oh. Yes, I think they're fine for now. Good enough."

"You know that you don't have to be out here. You could wait at camp and let us do the work, if you didn't feel up to it."

"Thanks, but there's no way I'm sending you guys out to fight Maker knows what without me."

She laughed, smiling to herself as though she'd satisfied some curiosity. She looked at Lance, and saw his own curiosity.

"Do you remember what I said to you in the Fade?"

"That you didn't recognize me?"

She laughed and lightly pushed at his arm. She was cute that way. He imagined Morrigan would have set his hair on fire. She could do that, he was pretty sure. Leliana was too sweet for that. And he liked sweet. And even though he couldn't look at her and not think of Marna, however briefly, he liked looking at her. Because usually she was looking back.

"I mean about you being my Chevalier."

"Oh. I remember that," he said. He wanted to add that he remembered her kissing him, too, but he didn't want to make her feel weird. He wanted her to be okay.

"I don't mean to sound like a foolish schoolgirl," she said. "But I meant it. You are a hero to me."

"You don't know me."

"I know enough. I know you were there at Lothering, and you let me come with you. I know that you came through the Fade for me. And I know that you are a Grey Warden. And you wouldn't be, if you didn't want to fight the Darkspawn, if you weren't a hero."

Lance didn't know what to say. Was he a hero? He didn't feel especially heroic. He was just a man. A man that was too lucky to die in Highever Castle. Too lucky to die at Ostagar. To die a hundred different times since. And Leliana was just lucky that he was a sucker for a pretty girl.

"I'm a sucker for a pretty girl," Lance said. She looked away shyly. "But I'm not a hero."

"I grew up in Orlais," she said. "My mother was Ferelden, but we were in service to a noblewoman."

"So you are a Fereldan? In Orlesian dressing?"

"I suppose you could say that. What I mean to say is I grew up on the Orlesian stories. Of heroes and lovers. It was what made me become a bard. I love it, the intrigue. But after… Marjolaine I wanted to disappear."

He nodded. He wondered why she was telling him this, where it was going. But he wasn't going to stop her. It was something she needed to get off her chest. And he was glad that she'd chosen him.

"You rescued me from that. I feel like, with you, I can be part of something greater. I liked the Chantry. I miss it. But I know I wouldn't have been able to come this far without you. And I wouldn't have grown without you."

"Leliana… I'm here for you. You gotta know that, right?"

"Yes. And that is why you are a hero to me."

Her hand glanced against his, touching him. He responded in kind, taking her hand, intertwining their fingers. It felt nice. It felt right.

"Leliana," said Lance. "There's something you should know."

"About what?"

"About another woman."

She looked at him, eyebrow raised. He opened his mouth to speak, to tell her that she reminded him of Marna, that her death still ached in his heart, that he knew he couldn't give her what she wanted from him, that he couldn't give her what she deserved. But he never got the chance.

"Help!" shouted a woman. She was running up the road towards them, dressed in traveler's robes, dirty. Lance released Leliana's hand, approaching the woman.

"What's wrong?"

"They've attacked the caravan! They're still there, please you must help!"

She ran back down the road, obviously intending for them to follow. Lance broke into a run, unable to keep up with her. She was at the cart before he'd even left the road. He took stock of the situation, wondering why there was a suspicious lack of bandits or Darkspawn.

Wait a minute.

Natural choke point, lone traveler, empty cart, vantage points on either side, loose log behind.

He had his sword drawn before he could even shout a warning.

"Ambush!"

There was a flicker of movement. They were surrounded. The log behind them smashed down, cutting off their retreat. His body was in combat mode.

"Leliana, cover left. Morrigan and Wynne, right. Alistair, stay on me."

He charged forward, even as the traveling woman began to draw her own weapon. Lance ducked left, avoiding an arrow fired at him from above. Leliana answered it, dropping the would-be assassin. He ducked right, another arrow.

The cliff face to his right erupted in flames, Morrigan and Wynne working in unison to incinerate the assassins positioned there.

Someone leapt at Lance.

He felt the impact in his left side, thankfully away from his hurt ribs. He came up in a crouch, facing off with his attacker. An Elf.

An Elf assassin. Figures.

He swung left, the assassin dodged. The Elf struck out with both daggers, a pincer move designed to trap him. Lance fell backwards, letting the blades pass above him. He kicked out, knocking the bastard away.

The woman was over him suddenly, dagger raised to strike. Alistair met her head-on, his sword impaling her in the gut. He lifted her off of her feet and with a single sweep sent her flying to die in the grass.

Lance was up. The Elf was his to kill.

He held his dagger in his left hand, underhanded. He was going to gut the rat bastard.

The Elf was up, graceful, practiced. He was no amateur and was likely the head of the operation. Lance slashed, faster than the Elf expected and managed to scratch him. The Elf punched, still clutching his dagger.

Lance recoiled. It was just the two of them.

He could see Morrigan and Leliana in the corner of his eye, and he knew they were watching with great interest. He had to win. If anything then just so he wouldn't be skewered in front of them.

He attacked, slashing with his sword. The Elf met the blow. Lance let his dagger go for the throat. The Elf was ready for that, too.

His own blade came up and threw Lance's aside.

Lance didn't hesitate. He punched the Elf, square in the jaw. He followed it with an elbow strike to his head. He grabbed the Elf's wrist, twisted, brought his armored forearm down to disarm the Elf. He twisted the arm again, in the opposite direction.

He put his leg behind the Elf's, using his momentary advantage to its fullest. He shoved, the Elf was put off balance and fell backwards. One swift move and Lance was holding the Elf by his arm, one knee on his back.

"You are pretty good," said the Elf. He had Antivan accent, and Lance was reminded of Oriana. He twisted the arm harder.

"Who are you?"

"I am an assassin," the Elf admitted, through teeth gritted with pain. "I was hired by a man in the Royal Palace."

"Loghain?" Alistair asked. The Elf nodded.

"Yes, I believe that was his name."

"Boy did you make a mistake," said Lance. The Elf nodded again.

"I can see that. Look, you are a reasonable man, yes? Hear me out. It will cost you nothing but time."

"Make it quick."

"My name is Zevran Arainai, Zev to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows," he said. Lance had heard of the Crows. They were supposed to be an elite cadre of assassins and, worse yet, Antivans. "Look, you are a man of great skill, it is obvious. Accepting this contract was the biggest mistake I've ever made. Understand this, the Antivan Crows will kill me if I return without you dead."

"How is this my problem?"

"It is not. But, if you spare my life, I will be quite indebted to you. One might say that I would owe you my life."

"What makes you think I would want your life?"

"I am a good assassin, despite present appearances, and my life is forfeit otherwise."

"You'd be just as loyal to me as to the Crows?"

"Right up until you expect me to do something or die for it. And you don't seem the type."

He wasn't. Morrigan was.

"Let's say I let you go. What then?"

"Then I put my not inconsiderable skills to good use. Serving you."

Lance thought about that. He was being given an offer of servitude by an assassin. An assassin who had just failed to assassinate him. He looked back at the group.

"You can't possibly be considering this," Alistair asked. "I mean, he just tried to kill us."

"Unsuccessfully," Zevran was quick to add.

"'Twould be an interesting turn of events," said Morrigan. "Though you would be well advised to check your food regularly."

"That's excellent advice for anyone," said Zevran. Lance huffed at that.

"Maybe I decided just now to kill you? Slice open your throat and leave you here?"

"Oh, I don't think that would be so good for me."

"Don't kill him," Leliana begged. Lance had already drawn his knife. He looked up at her. Damn. He couldn't kill the guy _now_. He was stupid. But he was also in a position to be desperate.

"Fine," said Lance. "Welcome aboard."

"Are you serious?" asked Alistair. "You're really going to bring along the guy that tried to kill us?"

"You want to finish him off?"

"Well, no."

"Exactly."

"I hope you know what you are doing," Wynne warned. "But I trust to your judgment."

"It should be interesting to travel with one of the famed Antivan Crows," Leliana said, apparently quite pleased at Lance's act of mercy.

"Oh?" said Zevran. "And are all adventurers as lovely as you, surely?"

Lance frowned. "They're not. And don't call me 'Shirley'."


	22. A Village Under Siege

They approached Redcliffe just as the sun was preparing to set. It was good. They could unwind in an actual castle for once, instead of in tents in the wild. Alistair looked a bit apprehensive, probably nervous about returning to the home he'd been kicked out of when he was a child.

Isolde, the Arl's wife, had been suspicious of the rumors that Eamon had sired Alistair, and didn't appreciate the scandalous looks. So she'd had him sent to the Chantry to become a lyrium-addled mage hunter. Poor guy.

But of course, Lance was learning that nothing would be as easy as spending a night in a castle.

As they came to a bridge that crossed the subtle waterfall of Redcliffe, a man approached, carrying a bow on his back and looking very haggard.

"Who goes there?" he called. Lance shrugged.

"We do."

"Who are you?"

"We are Grey Wardens, seeking aid from Arl Eamon."

"You haven't heard?"

"Heard what?"

"The Arl is ill. He is in a sleep from which no medicine rouses him. And the village itself is under siege."

"Darkspawn?"

"No. Worse, if that is imaginable."

"What's going on, then? We can help."

Morrigan snorted. She didn't like the whole "helping others" thing. Whatever.

"Come quickly," said the man. "Bann Teagan is in the Chantry, organizing our defense."

"Bann Teagan?" asked Alistair. "I haven't seen him in years."

"Take us to him, then," said Lance. The man nodded and led the way down the steppes.

The town's Chantry was filled to brimming with people. Militiamen milled about, doing their best to prepare for a battle. The priests were tending to the flock, trying to provide as much moral support as they could.

"What happened here?" Lance asked. If it wasn't the Darkspawn, then what else could it have been? It looked exactly like Lothering had. This wasn't possible.

"Bann Teagan," said their militia guide. "These travelers to see you."

"Thank you, Tomas," said Bann Teagan. "How can I assist you?"

"Bann Teagan?" asked Alistair. "What happened here?"

"You are familiar to me. Have we met?"

"I was covered in dirt when last we spoke, yes."

"Alistair!" Teagan declared. "It's been years. Oh that we'd met again in happier times."

"I'm a Grey Warden now," said Alistair. "We need to talk to Arl Eamon, to get support against Loghain."

"A noble cause. Loghain has wasted no time in finding support amongst the nobility. I fear that he will start a civil war if he does not get the crown. I am sorry to say that there will be no talking to Arl Eamon for some time."

"Why?" Lance asked. Bann Teagan hesitated, regarding Lance with understandable trepidation. They had no reason to trust one another. But Teagan was apparently satisfied that Lance was travelling with Alistair and spoke.

"No one knows if he's even alive," said Teagan. Lance raised an eyebrow. Tomas had said that he was sick, but how could they not know if he was alive? "The monsters, the undead, they come nightly from the castle. No one answers my shouts during the day, and there has been no word. We know not if anyone yet lives."

"Well we need in," said Lance. "One way or another, we have to find Arl Eamon."

"Then you will help us? I assure you that there are too many of the monstrosities to make it safely into the castle. We lack the manpower to send an expedition."

"You want us to face the monsters," said Lance. "In a decisive battle. Shattering their numbers and thinning out their ranks enough to make it inside."

"Yes," said Bann Teagan. "You look familiar. Have we met in the Landsmeet?"

"You've probably met my father, Teyrn Cousland."

"Ah. You are his youngest son. I am sorry about your family. Arl Eamon will gladly help you retake your station. If we can help him, of course."

"You needn't try to convince me," said Lance. "I've already made up my mind. Where are your men set up?"

Lance couldn't claim any tactical genius, but he had been trained in military strategy by father. Fergus had far more practical knowledge, but Lance at least knew the theory.

The militia's leaders consisted of Teagan, Mayor Murdock, and Ser Perth commanding Redcliffe's knights. Lance stood with them, around a table in the Chantry while the rest of his company searched the town for material with which to construct a defense. All except Morrigan, who refused to be ordered about like a soldier under his command and instead stood impassively beside him, watching over the strategizing.

"The main approach from the castle is here," said Teagan, pointing out a narrow path that descended the cliffs to the town. "They've also been seen to come across the river in force."

"Then we'll have a two-stage defense," said Lance. "Ser Perth and our heaviest hitters will station themselves here at the approach from the castle. Bottle 'em up and their numbers won't count."

"The townsfolk will be in the Chantry," said Teagan. "We can rely on the militia to guard it from attack."

"I'd like to pull a few men back as a reaction force, in case one line or the other is overrun."

"We'd be stretching it pretty thin," said Murdock. "Don't even know if my men are up to holding the Chantry."

"We add a few mages," said Lance. "I think our survivability will be increased rather significantly."

"You have mages?" Murdock asked, sounding a bit nervous at the prospect of magic. Morrigan let out a little sigh.

"Yes. Wynne can stick with the militia. She's a healer and can keep your guys fighting fresh. Morrigan will-"

"Ahem."

"I meant, Morrigan would you _care_ to accompany me in fighting an undead army as they leave the castle?"

"I will not commit at this point in time, but because you asked so nicely I will give it consideration."

"That would be wonderful. She's a real doll," said Lance to Teagan. He looked quite confused.

Zevran had until this moment been standing quietly behind Lance, well in view of Morrigan's watchful eye. He cleared his throat and came forward.

"Where will I be?" he asked. Lance snorted.

"I'm not letting you out of my sight. No matter what."

"That is comforting," said Zevran. "I look forward to being in such good company."

Lance frowned. "Morrigan?"

"Stay away, churl," she said to Zevran. "You shall not deceive your way into _our_ good graces."

"Thanks," said Lance. As for the business of defending the town, "Is there anything that can be done pre-battle?"

"We need our armor and weapons fixed," said Murdock. "Our resident smith has refused to help."

"Why's that?"

"His daughter worked in the castle. He's grief stricken."

"Oh. I'll see if I can get him to come around."

He stepped away from the table, and Morrigan followed. She looked back at Zevran and gestured for him to remain absolutely still. He smirked at her and gave her an innocent wink.

"Ugh," she groaned. "'Twill forever perplex me why you allowed the assassin to live."

"I wasn't going to," said Lance. "Leliana stopped me."

"Ah. So the girl is our leader now?"

"I wasn't going to kill the guy if she didn't want me to," said Lance. She clucked her tongue.

"'Twould seem to me that you are jeopardizing all of us for the sake of the girl and her feelings."

"That's not what happened."

"No? 'Tis exactly what I saw."

"Well he hasn't tried to kill us yet, so maybe he isn't all bad."

"If only_ I_ exercised as much control over you," she said, a rather wistful tone in her voice. "Ah, the things I could do."

"Hm. She doesn't 'control' me."

"She has you by your manhood," said Morrigan. "You entertain her fancies and daydreams and you refuse to teach her the realities of life."

"What are the realities of life?"

She made a noise of annoyance. "I do not like her."

"You don't seem to like anybody."

"'Tis not so. I like you, Warden."

"I was under quite a different impression," said Lance. Morrigan shook her head. She reached out, touching his shoulder lightly.

"I do… have a care about your well being," she said. "I am worried that your affections will cause you to act without considering the consequence."

"Are you? Because here I am basically making it up as I go and you haven't been very prolific with your sage-like wisdom," said Lance. She looked hurt, if only a bit.

"I only wish… I had hoped that we were…"

"What?"

"I wanted us to be-"

"Lance," shouted Alistair, running up to them. Lance frowned a bit, struggling to look away from Morrigan and her earnest eyes.

"What is it, Alistair?"

"The trade house has barrels of lamp oil," said Alistair. "I think we can come up with a creative use for that."

Lance nodded. They could soak the path from the castle and burn the creatures alive even as they charged. Provided it didn't just create hordes of flaming undead.

"That's good thinking," said Lance. "You sure you've never done this before?"

"Well, I can only try. You're an inspiring leader."

"I'm touched."

Alistair went off to retrieve the barrels, and Lance turned back to Morrigan.

"What were you saying?"

"Nothing," she said. "We have much work to do. You have a smithy to speak to."

Lance felt his shoulders slump. He nodded.

"Can we speak in private? Later?"

"Perhaps."

"I would really like that."

He knocked on the smithy's door. There was no answer, and it was locked from within, so Lance pounded on it hard.

"Huh? Who is it?" shouted the smithy from within. He was slurring badly.

"My name is Lance. I'm a Grey Warden come to aid in this town's defense. We need your help."

"I'll tell you like I told old Murdock: I ain't doin' nothin'."

"I'd rather not have this conversation through a door," Lance said. "Can I please come in?"

There was a pause on the other side, a nervous moment where Lance considered kicking the door in. And then the latch rattled.

He pushed the door open, stepping inside. His nose wrinkled at the smell of copious amounts of alcohol.

"My word!" Morrigan muttered behind him. He tried not to pass commentary for fear of steeling the drunken smithy's will. But he signaled for Morrigan to leave the door open regardless.

"You a Grey Warden, huh? Guess it takes all kinds."

"Yeah. I understand you refuse to help the town."

"Why should I help them if they won't help me?"

"Everyone will die without your help," said Lance. "Surely that means something to you."

"It don't. And don't call me 'Shirley'," said the smithy. Lance was about to hit this man. "My daughter is dead. And so am I. Why should I bother helping these weasels stay alive?"

"Your daughter worked in the castle, right? Maybe she's alive. You won't ever know if you don't help us fight."

"You think you can get her out?"

"I didn't say that, necessarily," said Lance. "But I do need to get in the castle. I will look for her."

"Not good enough," he said. "I want you to promise me you'll find her."

"You are asking a great deal, you wretched little man," said Morrigan. Lance reached behind him, touching her hand lightly to keep her from completely ruining their chances. She shifted anxiously behind him.

"I promise you," he said. "I will find her. I will save her."

He felt a rock drop in his gut; for fear that he was making promises that were already forfeit. She would likely be one of the monsters they faced that night.

When they left, Morrigan let her displeasure be known.

"Are we to begin rescuing kittens from trees?"

"If you'd like."

"You realize that you do him no good, do you not? If he is to cling onto false hope, he surely fools himself."

"Sometimes hope is as good as it gets," said Lance. "Besides, I meant it. If she's alive, I will find her."

"And if you cannot?"

"Then he will be heartbroken."

"I see," she said. "You puzzle me, if I may be so bold to say. I rather like puzzles."

"I am flattered you like me."

"I did not say that."

He smiled at her, giving her a know-it-all laugh. She frowned at him, but returned the smile the instant she was sure he couldn't see.

Lance looked out across the lake, at the castle. He sighed heavily.

Look how far he'd come. Just weeks ago he was bored, sitting in his father's study between bouts of scandalous sex with Marna. And now he was one of the last Grey Wardens in Ferelden, bravely organizing the defense of a town against unfathomable monsters. It was amazing, yet somehow agonizingly heartbreaking.

He'd come so far that sometimes he didn't even recognize himself. Sometimes he hated the way he was now. He knew the more time he spent out here, saving others and killing monsters, the further from home he got. He knew he was going to kill Howe, that was a promise he'd made to himself and to his dead house, but after that?

There was nowhere left for him. He was drifting, homeless. He would never have a place to stay. Ever. You can never go home again.

"Warden?" asked Morrigan, noticing his thoughtful expression. "We have much work to do. You can contemplate later."

"I'm sorry," said Lance. "I was just thinking. That's all."

"May I ask what about?"

"Me."

"I see. I can tell by your face that they were not good thoughts. I would hope that you would be willing to share with me, if there were anything you wished to discuss."

He was still staring out over the lake, at the ships left anchored there. He was watching the sunlight reflect off the water, sending gold rays to dance along the cliff faces.

"It'll never stop," said Lance. He looked back at Morrigan, saw that she was confused.

"Grey Warden?"

"This life," he said. "It won't ever stop. I'll never stop. Even if I stop the Blight myself, even if I kill Howe, this is all I can ever expect to have."

"Yes," said Morrigan. "It must be a shock to suddenly realize that the course of one's life has been set."

She moved to stand beside him, looking out over the lake, suddenly caught in her own thoughts.

"I do not know how I would take it," she said. "If I knew that my entire life was a set course. As a Grey Warden, that is your life. 'Tis who you are now."

"It feels… strange."

"For what 'tis worth, and I imagine it has little worth, you have my sympathies."

"Thank you. It means a lot more to me than you think."

She made a noise in her throat, something that told him she was uncomfortable. It was a far cry from the Morrigan that would have just told him to stop being a baby. He liked this Morrigan.

"Come on," he said. "We have a war to win."


	23. The Attack at Nightfall

"Here they come," said Ser Perth. "Stand to, men. The Maker will see us to victory!"

A pestilent green mist had descended from the castle, obscuring the defender's view. Lance had no idea what it was, if it was safe to breathe, and he had no intention of finding out. He hoped it was flammable.

"Morrigan," he said. "I need you to light the oil on my command."

"Of course," she said. This time she wouldn't argue with him. Not when he was in his zone of mastery. He supposed that if they were to be in some sort of magical fight, he would be expected to take her orders without question.

Whatever these undead monsters were, they were coming fast. They moved across the bridge to the castle, through the narrow paths in the cliff faces, descending towards the village of Redcliffe. Lance held his sword and dagger at the ready, shoulder to shoulder with Morrigan. Zevran stood nearby, just out of the way of the flood. He had insisted that he be able to fight in his own way, picking off the stragglers as they approached.

Wynne, Alistair and Leliana were in front of the Chantry, preparing to fight a possible assault from the lake or, if things here didn't go so well, to fight to the death defending the women and children.

Dark figures moved through the mists, coming closer to the oil-slick barricade before the defenders. Ser Perth and his knights held their swords ready, eager to smash the undead to pieces. Lance reminded himself not to bother with the flesh of the creatures; that would do no good. You had to smash them to pieces, crush skulls and bones.

"Morrigan, now!"

A wave of fire spread from her fingers to the oiled barricade, a wave that grew in mass until it covered the choke point before the defenders. The monsters were caught in the inferno, set ablaze. A few were too far decomposed to make the final few feet to the defenders and they collapsed under the heat and flame. They burned themselves alive. Or dead, rather.

The lines met, the undead mixed with the defenders and a swirling melee erupted.

Lance brought the pommel of his sword down on a shambling undead soldier, cracking its skull and putting it on the ground for good. He twisted; relieving another of its head, a turn and a third was on the ground.

Zevran spurred into action, attacking the undead creatures from behind, moving faster than sight with his blades. Arms and legs and heads disappeared.

Lance body charged an undead, knocking it to the ground and stomping its head into paste. He looked back quickly, to assess the course of the battle.

There was a flash of white light from down below in the town. Wynne, firing off magic. The undead had charged across the lake. He could only hope now that the bulk of the horde attacked his position, where he could control things. He had the utmost confidence in his abilities; he knew what he was capable of. He feared for Leliana and Alistair and Wynne. What would happen to them if he weren't there?

He expected Morrigan to fall back out of the battle, to stay behind them and support them with her magic, but she was there beside him, fighting. He'd never seen such a thing.

She used her staff as a weapon, sending it flying left and right, smashing into undead heads and sweeping out legs. She was good. When she had the opportunity she fired off her magic, sending lighting into the horde of monstrosities as they approached, or freezing a few of them in place.

She was amazing to watch.

There was no time to hesitate, though. He had to keep fighting. He had to kill. And never stop killing.

He lashed out with his sword, sending the tip through the eye of an attacking monster. He swirled it, scrambling whatever brain matter was left in the thing and leaving it convulse and twitch on the ground.

The monsters were ill equipped and ill prepared. Their weapons were whatever they'd held when they were killed and resurrected. No doubt they were the remains of the castle's guard. A few were dressed in civilian attire, the servants and staff of the castle pressed into undead service. None of their armor was up to a battle, having fought a staggering running battle within the castle already.

Lance was already covered in bits of putrid gore, and he could smell the decaying soldiers rotting on their feet. He might have thrown up if he weren't so concerned with saving his own life.

The undead attack faltered. They'd apparently not expected this sort of resistance, and whatever force that ordered them had apparently decided to pull his monster army back before he lost too many to prevent an excursion into the castle. This played right into their hands.

He looked at Morrigan, gave her a nod. She smiled that wicked smile of hers, gold eyes alight. He had to remember to use her in this fashion more often.

She raised her staff above her head, calling on some ethereal forces Lance couldn't even imagine. The air around them cracked, and Lance felt his hair stand on end.

Lightning struck the undead forces in their center, completely obliterating a handful and sending dozens more reeling in various states. Then a second bolt of lightning struck, and a third. Soon, bolt after bolt was striking the horde, even as they retreated back up through the mist.

Morrigan summoned more lightning, creating a tempest that hounded the undead all the way back across the bridge to the castle, leaving countless monsters shattered and broken in their wake.

"Smells like burning, rotten meat," said Lance when the last of the horde had been dealt with. The barricade continued to burn, and they let it. It would take care of any secondary attack the monsters might make and provide the people of the village below with some respite before dawn.

He could only hope that the rest of his companions yet lived.

"I would not enjoy doing that again," said Morrigan, cautiously picking bits of exploded undead off of her shoulders. "'Tis most… messy."

"Indeed it is," said Lance, wiping gore from his chin with the back of his hand. "Andraste, that's gross."

They returned to the Chantry, having left the defense of the path to Ser Perth and his men. Morrigan looked quite pleased with herself, having utterly decimated the attacking army of monsters.

"I do think that perhaps you are not using me to my full potential," said Morrigan. Lance gave her a grin.

"And how would you like me to use you?"

"Oh, please let us dispense with the flirting for a moment," she said, and he was a little less than happy. "You saw what I am capable of, yet you insist on leading every charge, fighting every monster."

"Well what fun would it be if I just hung back and let you do all the work?"

"This is all a game to you?"

"It has to be, right?"

She scoffed at him, and yet she was grinning to herself.

"I must repeat myself," she said. "You are a puzzle to me."

"And you are quite the puzzle to me," said Lance. She smiled, and he smiled. He would have reached out to her, playfully put one arm around her shoulders if she would have let him. But they were both covered in the material of several undead monsters and neither of them wanted to be particularly close.

Thank the Maker that the others faired so well.

Alistair stood, leaning on his sword, a rather proud look on his face.

"Well, if it isn't my Brother and commander," he said, smug. "I do hope by the look on your face that things went half as well for you as for me."

"Oh? And exactly how well did things go for you?"

"Marvelously. I think the local folk will be telling tales of my heroism for years to come."

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Alistair," said Leliana. "Without Wynne we never would have had such an easy time."

"You give me far too much credit, dear," said Wynne. "I only did my job."

"Well I'm only too glad that you were here, Wynne," Lance said. "Really. I think two mages is about the best thing that could ever happen to us."

Morrigan looked away, obviously displeased by his praise of Wynne.

He was quick to say, "But you should have seen Morrigan! It was a sight for the ages."

"You need not flatter me," she said. She pushed away from him, heading to the docks where she would no doubt brood. "I know where am and am not wanted."

Lance watched her go, aware that he must have looked like some kind of fool. Alistair cleared his throat, picking up his sword and joining Bann Teagan in the Chantry to celebrate the victory that night. Wynne whispered something to Leliana, and she too took her leave.

Lance was left watching after Morrigan, and Leliana cautiously approached him. She was close, closer than he thought was comfortable.

"Go to her," she whispered. And Lance felt a stone in his gut.


	24. Morrigan by the Lake

"What?"

"Go to her," said Leliana. "You don't need to humor me anymore."

"I…"

"I know you like her," she said. Lance didn't exactly know what to say. "She likes you."

"I was… quite under the impression that you were fond of me," said Lance, choosing his words carefully. Leliana looked away.

"Yes, I am quite fond of you. You are a hero in my eyes. I think that might have colored my thoughts. This is difficult for me to say."

"I'm sorry, Leliana," said Lance. "I truly am. I do like you. You're a wonderful person."

"This is okay. You would be happier if you didn't feel like you had to protect my feelings," she said. "And I want you to be happy, even if it isn't with me. I want Morrigan to be happy, too. Sometimes. I think you are good for her."

Lance listened. There wasn't anything he could say, he realized. This must have been hard for her. She was so sweet. It was like he was ruining her, somehow.

"Don't get that look," she said. "I am a big girl. I will get over it, eventually. You are still a hero to me. You always will be."

"This means a lot to me," said Lance. She nodded, smiling as sweetly as ever.

"You know, it is still like the stories," she said. "You the brave Chevalier, teaching the dark and brooding sorceress to love. Women swooning before you."

"That's a little exaggerated."

"All the best ones are. Now go. Tell her that you are hers."

He smiled, unable to hold back the sheer joy of it all. He was quite taken in with Morrigan, that was obvious, and he was so glad that he had Leliana's blessing. He leaned in, gave her a kiss.

"I don't know how I will ever be able to repay you," he said. She laughed. And he hurried to where Morrigan stood, watching the reflection of the moon in the lake. She barely acknowledged his sudden presence beside her.

She was taking handfuls of cold water, washing herself. He did the same, not wanting to look desperate for attention.

"It's a nice night," he said. And he mentally kicked himself for saying something so damn stupid.

"No."

"Well, it isn't. But, I mean, it's nice. With you here."

"Is this flattery? Or flirtation?"

"I'm not good at it, am I?"

"No. You really aren't."

"Yeah. I guess what I mean is… I like you."

She paused, just long enough for every implication of the statement to sink in. But she didn't acknowledge him. She just continued splashing the water – cold water, from what Lance could see – on her, as if it gave her some reason to pretend he wasn't speaking.

"Morrigan, what can I say to you? I feel like an idiot every time I speak around you."

"Are you insinuating something about me?"

"No, see? This is what I mean. I don't know how to say what I want to say. So I'm going to just say it," he took a breath. He wasn't used to this. There wasn't anything about this he'd ever done before. Hell, even Marna had approached _him_ when it came to their shared interest. He only liked to pretend that he was at all competent in matters of the heart. And now here he was, making a fool of himself.

"Morrigan, I really like you. I think about you. A lot. This entire trip, I've felt like the only thing good about it was you. I know we didn't exactly meet in the greatest of circumstances, and I'm sure had you a choice you would be elsewhere, but I'm so glad that you came with me."

"Yes, because fighting Darkspawn and monsters and being the bane of human society is just _oh so_ romantic."

"Dammit, that's not what I'm trying to say."

"I know what you are saying," said Morrigan. She stood before him. Her face was that same mask of contempt and amusement that confounded him constantly. He wanted to reach out to her, to touch her just this once. "If you would like, we may lay together tonight. Perhaps then you will cease vexing me."

"What? No. Morrigan, you misunderstand."

"No, Grey Warden, 'tis you who are mistaken. I do not wish to be 'close' to you. I do not wish to 'be' with you. I only wish what _I_ desire, and this once it might be also what _you_ desire."

"I don't want a one-time thing with you," said Lance. She frowned.

"You are a sad little man. What else could you want?"

"Maybe something deep. Between us."

"You talk of love," she said. She looked rather disgusted with him. "You talk of devotion, of self-sacrifice. These things are weakness. They are the reasons why you cannot simply accept that your family is gone. Forever. You are a weak man who squanders his strengths on such pursuits. I've given you the offer of sex, and you have refused me. There is nothing else we could ever have."

"Why? Why not?"

"Because," she said. "Because."

"I want more."

"You cannot have it. Weakness must be a trait of your family; else you would not be the last of them."

She turned and coldly walked away, leaving him behind her, pale of face and near collapsing.

She didn't look back, because she didn't want him to see the tears that even now were welling in her eyes. Tears of weakness, of stupidity.

He would just have to hate her if that was the only way to keep him from her heart.


	25. Castle Redcliffe

The dawn came a few hours later, rousing Lance from his restless sleep. He looked over at where Morrigan lay on the Chantry floor, seeing that she was still sleeping. He didn't quite know how he felt anymore.

Here Leliana had gone through the trouble of giving him her blessing to pursue Morrigan, and he'd been such an idiot. Of course she didn't want him. He was stupid to think she ever would. The girl was born and raised by a Witch of the Wilds, to _be_ a witch. She would always be the witch.

And it was folly to think he could ever change her.

Bann Teagan had asked to speak with them before the village's windmill. And he intended to keep the appointment.

He stood and roused his companions, getting them ready to head into the castle and do battle with whatever demons had taken roost there.

"Get up," he said, nudging Morrigan with his boot. "Wake up. We have to go. Got no time to sleep."

"Need you touch me with that?" she asked, indicating his boot.

"What do you care?"

He picked up his sword and sheath, attaching them once more to his person. He was weary, but not from lack of sleep. As he stepped out into the early morning air he reflected on everything they'd done thus far. He was tired of it all. He wanted to be done with it, with these people.

And with Morrigan. He thought bitterly about her. He'd been wrong to entrust such personal information with her, to tell her how he felt. She was a viper. She used whatever she could get on a person and put them in the ground.

She'd known exactly the right thing to say, to make him feel shattered on the inside. He hated her a little bit. But it wouldn't last, he knew. He couldn't hate her. And he hated that he couldn't hate her. Why? Why did she have her hands around him so that he couldn't even feel the way he wanted to feel?

What was this?

He heard movement behind him.

"Warden," said Morrigan. He could sense her reaching out to touch his shoulder. He took a step forward, away from her.

"Get your shit and let's go," he said. "We don't have the whole day ahead of us."

"Warden, I-"

"Didn't you hear me? Let's go."

He was already heading towards the windmill, leaving her behind him. He didn't have time for her bullshit. He didn't have time for her at all.

He was a Grey Warden, for Andraste's sake. He was above that. He was above such foolish daydreaming. He was above her.

But she persisted, and she followed him. Thank the Maker she didn't say anything.

"It's so peaceful," said Bann Teagan, looking out at the castle. "You couldn't even tell anything was wrong from here. It's as though nothing bad happened."

"It is… something," said Lance. "What's the plan?"

"Well, walking up to the gate is out," said Teagan. "But there is a secret escape tunnel we can take, one that only I have access to."

"How convenient that it escaped your attention before," said Lance. Morrigan opened her mouth to agree, but Lance silenced her.

"I admit that I was not forthcoming because I desperately required your assistance," said Teagan. "I am sorry. But now we have an opening. We can save the Arl and kill whoever is responsible for this."

"Sounds good to me. My companions are-"

"Bann Teagan!" a woman shouted. Lance turned to see a woman, a noble, running down the path from the castle with two guards. Lance cautiously stepped forward, readying himself to reach for his sword. He felt Morrigan move, too, stepping to be beside him, as if that would make up for her being a royal bitch.

"Isolde?" Teagan stepped towards her, giving a subtle signal for Lance to remain calm. He did. "Isolde, how did you escape the castle?"

"The… creature allowed me to leave," said Isolde. "It wanted me to bring you back."

She was Orlesian. A scandalous thing for an Arl to have an Orlesian wife.

"Creature? Do you mean a demon?" Lance asked. It would make sense. Someone allowed a demon to enter the mortal world, and it had repaid them by summoning an army.

Isolde glanced at him, hesitated. "It is possible. Who are you?"

"I'm the guy that's going to save your ass."

"He's okay," said Teagan. "A Grey Warden."

"Oh. The creature instructed me to have you come to the castle. Alone."

"Smells like an ambush," said Lance. "Why don't you tell us what has happened here."

"I… do not know how much is safe to tell," said Isolde. "Eamon is poisoned, by a mage. He caused this when he was discovered. Oh, Teagan, you must return. Connor, my sweet Connor, he has seen so much death!"

"I will come," said Teagan. Lance hesitated to speak. It was an obvious trap, so what was Teagan planning? "Please allow me to speak with the Warden alone."

Isolde stepped away, obviously anxious about something. She was up to no good, Lance surmised.

"You can't possibly be serious," said Lance. "This reeks of fish."

"I know," said Teagan. "I think this may be our best chance to get to the bottom of this. Here."

He handed Lance a signet ring.

"This will unlock the access to the tunnel," said Teagan. "The trapdoor is in the windmill."

Lance nodded. "I'll see you on the inside."

"If something happens… Eamon is the one that matters here."

"No," said Lance. "I'm getting everyone out."

"You are a good man."

Teagan glanced back at Morrigan, visibly intimidated. Lance was too.

Alistair and the others were already heading up the cliff to the windmill, even as Teagan and Isolde returned to the castle. Lance tested the shaky door of the windmill, making sure it wouldn't shatter at his touch.

He looked back at Morrigan. "Are you coming?"

The tunnel went under the lake. It was leaky in places. He was sure that it had been the most dangerous place he'd ever entered. It led out into the castle dungeon.

"I once locked myself in a cell here," said Alistair. "Was a whole day before I was found. Fun times."

"Help!" shouted a young man, locked in one of the cages. The poor guy had probably been in there from the start. Although, it was probably thanks to the cage that he was still alive. Lance rushed to where the man shouted, if only to keep him from giving away their position.

"Oh, Maker," said the imprisoned man. "I thought I would be in here forever."

"You might be," said Lance. "Who are you and what did you do?"

"I am Jowan, mage. I… I poisoned Arl Eamon," said the man.

"You just said the wrong thing to the wrong man on the wrong day," said Lance. He turned to leave, but the man called out to him.

"Please! You can't leave me here!"

"I'm trying."

"Look, I poisoned the Arl, yes, but only because Loghain ordered me to."

Lance stopped dead in his tracks. Loghain tried to kill Eamon? But of course; if Eamon could garner the support to actively oppose Loghain, then Loghain would have to take him out. Civil war.

"Get talking."

"I am a blood mage," said Jowan. Lance cringed. After the Circle, he wasn't eager to encounter more blood mages.

"You a blood mage?" asked Morrigan. "I never would have guessed."

"There's a lot you don't know," said Lance. To Jowan he said, "Isolde said that a mage was behind all this. You it?"

"No! Loghain's men took me from the Templars and shattered my phylactery. They said that Eamon was a traitor to the crown and that if I poisoned him he would make things easier for blood mages everywhere."

"You decided to harm another," said Wynne. "So that you could practice forbidden magic? You sound dangerously like Uldred, young man."

"I'm not crazy! I just… They kept it from us, they told us how powerful it was, and they wouldn't let us touch it. Was just so tempting. But I never hurt anyone!"

"Besides Eamon?"

"Yes!"

"Look, if all this checks out," said Lance. "Then you sit tight and we'll let you out."

"No, please. Let me free now. I want to help, to try to do something to undo what happened here."

"I thought you weren't responsible?"

"I'm not, but… I think I know who might have been."

"I'm listening."

"Isolde hired me. To teach her son."

"Connor is a mage?" asked Alistair, incredulously. Jowan nodded.

"He started showing signs. Isolde didn't want him taken to the Circle, where they would never see him again, so she hired me to be his tutor."

"Oh, Jowan," said Wynne. "You should have known better."

"Look, I can try to help," said Jowan. "Just let me go."

Lance sighed. He looked back at the group.

"Verdict?"

"I say we let him go," said Leliana. "He wants to help. Let him."

"He should be freed," said Morrigan. "It is your Chantry's fault for locking him up in there."

"I stand with you," said Alistair. Wynne didn't speak and Zevran was too busy trying to be agreeable.

"Well then," said Lance. "I guess you're free to go. Don't cause any trouble and we won't have to see each other again."

"Thank you. I'm going to try and set this right. I hope to see you again soon. Under better circumstances, I mean."

He ran off, to whatever end. Morrigan touched Lance's arm.

"That was noble of you," she said. "I would have understood if you did not trust him."

"I didn't do it for you," said Lance, jerking his arm to throw off her hand. She accepted it with poise, and realized that she had made a mistake. Leliana frowned.

"We got a castle to save," said Lance. He drew his sword. "Don't get soft on me."

The castle was still full with a substantial number of undead. He could only imagine what the place would have been like had they not defeated the attacking monstrosities. They wouldn't have made it ten feet. As it was, there were too many of the undead to get through.

They fought from the dungeon all the way to the far wing of the castle. The door to the main hall was locked, and they could hear Isolde and Teagan within. The only way to get there would have seen them entering the castle's basement to go through the courtyard. Ser Perth and his knights were waiting just outside the locked gate, and could be relied upon for aid should they open the gate for them.

But the monsters just wouldn't have it.

Lance could kill them, smash them, shatter them completely, but it just wasn't enough. They had a hard time getting to anywhere appreciable.

The creatures were even capable of setting traps. That had almost killed them.

Lance had ordered them to fall back into a hallway that looked clear, with dozens of the creatures bearing in on them from behind. He took up the rear, sealing the door as they passed through to hold off the undead.

But the doors lining the hallway opened, pouring out more of the creatures. Leliana shouted in shock, firing an arrow into the group that clustered near her.

"Wynne, get her back," he called, still holding the door behind them. An axe smashed through the door, sending splinters into his face. "Shit."

He felt a hand grab him, rotten flesh and bones digging into his neck. Shit. This wasn't how he wanted to go out.

A blade pressed against his armor, finding one of the cracks and poking through. He shouted in pain.

Blood issued forth, and he could feel the blade inching towards his kidney. It would be long and painful if the monster didn't just hack him apart right there. He wondered which he would prefer.

"No!" Morrigan shouted, and he felt the wind from her staff making contact with the creature's head. She brought it down again, and splattered the monster on the floor.

She pushed Lance away from the door, and sent a torrent of fire through it. The stench of burning, rotten flesh assailed him, and he landed on his back in the corner, helpless. Morrigan turned on her heel and charged the undead, knocking aside their companions.

There was a sudden flash of light, and Lance was forced to look away. When he returned his gaze, now a bit blurry, Morrigan was replaced by a gigantic spider. It attacked the undead, ripping them to pieces with its many limbs and using a fanged mouth to tear chunks from their bodies.

Lance was terrified.

Morrigan was some sort of shape-change-shifter. Whatever she was, he was substantially less attracted to her.

She obliterated the enemy, ripping them to pieces or just stomping them to mush. Leliana and the others were cowed by the carnage. Even as still-burning undead tried in vain to rip apart the door behind the group; they were safe thanks to Morrigan.

"Maker," said Leliana when Morrigan had returned to her human form. "That was astounding."

"Thank you," she said. "I do try."

To Lance, she said, "Are you okay? I saw that one of the creatures injured you."

"I'm fine," said Lance. She presented her hand to help him up, and Lance was a bit afraid to take it. "It's just a scratch."

"You are hurt," she said. She looked him in the eye, and he saw genuine concern there. "I do not want you to continue if you are injured."

"I swear I'm fine."

"Please, allow me," she reached for him, ready to apply her magic. He wanted to push her away, to tell her that he didn't need her help; if she didn't want him then he didn't want anything to do with her. But he couldn't.

It tingled, her healing magic. Wynne watched on. She probably would have been better for applying the healing magic, but she didn't dare intrude on Morrigan, not when there was something she desperately wanted to do.

"I've stopped the bleeding," she said. "It will scar."

"Add it to my collection."

"You are a brave man," she said. Leliana was smiling behind her. Lance put his hands on her shoulders, and Morrigan chanced a small smile.

"Get out of my way."

He urged her to the side, reclaiming his sword and leading the way to the basement where they could escape into the courtyard.

Ser Perth and his men were waiting just outside the gate, eager to be let in to get to blows with the enemy. Lance threw the switch, sending the gate up and letting the knights in. The undead didn't stand a chance then.

"The main hall," said Ser Perth. "That is where this will end."

They entered the main hall, confident. Lance had been hurt worse than he'd admitted, but he didn't want Morrigan to have the satisfaction.

Lance wasn't prepared for this.

Isolde stood at the head of the hall, looking about as tired as Lance felt. Her son Connor stood next to her. The two living guards were at their posts. But Bann Teagan…

He was dancing in the center of the hall, like a jester. He seemed to be happy to do it.

"What happened here?" Lance asked. There was no way this was normal. Isolde looked at him with sorrow.

Then Connor spoke, his voice not his own, "Mother, is this the man that opposes my armies?"

Isolde nodded.

"Who are you? Why do you challenge me, little man?"

"I don't know who the hell you are," said Lance. "But you've got some serious explaining to do."

"Nobody tells me what to do!"

Teagan laughed. "Nobody tells him what to do! _Nobody!_"

"Quiet, uncle," Connor shouted. "What did I tell you about shouting?"

"Isolde, step away," said Lance. "Get away from him."

"He is possessed," said Morrigan. Lance didn't acknowledge her.

"I tire of you," said Connor. "I could kill you. I am happy here. We made a deal. The boy is mine, and the father lives."

"A deal?"

"The boy has made a deal with a demon," said Morrigan. "The fool."

"Get out of the boy," said Lance. "Now."

"I will not! It was a fair deal!"

Connor ran from the hall. The two guards and Teagan stepped forward, weapons drawn. Lance couldn't kill Teagan. Isolde went to the corner, cowering in fear.

Lance punched Teagan, hoping to knock him out long enough for them to dispatch the two guards. He didn't care so much about them.

Morrigan caught on and stepped before Lance, dealing a crack to Teagan's head with her staff. Alistair was already skewering a guard while Zevran made short work of the other.

"Isolde," said Lance, stepping over the dazed Teagan. "What happened?"

"It was the blood mage," she insisted. "He summoned a demon to take my Connor."

"No!" Jowan shouted, having entered at some point. "My Lady, I did no such thing!"

"Quiet, murderer! You poisoned my Eamon!"

"Who… let him out?" Teagan asked, sitting up. "Oh, my head."

"I let him out," Lance said. "And I stand by my decision."

"My Lady, Connor made a deal with a demon to save the Arl."

"And he wouldn't have done it if you hadn't poisoned him!"

"He would not have done it if you hadn't sought to deceive the Circle," said Wynne. "The blame does not lie at any one person's feet."

"How do we kill the demon?" asked Lance, afraid of the answer. Alistair sighed.

"There's no choice but to kill the boy."

"Ugh," said Morrigan. "Templar training at its finest."

"There is a way to enter the Fade, confront the demon directly," said Jowan. "If the demon hasn't possessed Connor by force, than killing it will free the boy."

"How does this work?"

"It would require blood magic," said Jowan. "Normally massive quantities of lyrium are used, but I can instead use the life energy of a person for the ritual. But it would require a lot of life energy."

"How much?"

"All of it."

"So either way someone dies…"

Lance shook his head. Talk about your shitty options…

"No, there has to be some other way," said Lance. Alistair perked up.

"Wouldn't the Circle have lyrium?"

Wynne nodded. "Yes. More than enough."

"The Circle is only a day's trip across the lake," said Teagan. "If you leave now, you may be able to convince them in time."

"I don't know how much convincing it'll take," said Lance. "They owe me one."


	26. To Save Connor

"What is wrong with you?" Leliana asked him. They were in camp, having spent their daylight traveling to the Circle. They probably could have made it within a few more hours, but Lance didn't want to arrive back at Redcliffe too late tomorrow.

Leliana had apparently not been happy with what she saw, and she demanded an explanation from Lance.

"I gave you a free pass to be with Morrigan, without me," she said, visibly hurt. "And you… you act like an animal?"

"I'm sorry, but it seems we were both wrong," he said. "She would not have me."

Leliana's eyes widened. "But that isn't possible. I've seen you two, I've seen her."

"I thought the same," said Lance. "But no. She refused me."

"Oh, I am sorry. This must be painful for you."

"You've no idea."

Lance sat down on a tree stump near the fire. He looked over his shoulder, at Morrigan's tent. She was sitting there, reading that stupid gods damn grimoire. Leliana looked genuinely saddened.

"Did she say why? I don't understand."

"She… said enough. She's heartless. She's a beast. I should never have let her come along."

"Don't say that!" said Leliana. "You don't mean it. I can tell. You are so hurt by her."

"Sod her," said Lance. "I don't need her. I never needed anyone."

He didn't mean it. Even now he cursed himself. Why? What had he done? They've flirted so much, he was sure he saw signs. How could he have been this wrong?

"Do you want me to speak with her?" asked Leliana. He shook his head.

"No. It wouldn't do either of us any good."

"I am just so, so sorry," said Leliana. "I wish there was something I could do."

"There's nothing _to_ do," said Lance. "She doesn't want me."

"It isn't fair," said Leliana. She reached out, touching his shoulder. She was crying a little. Gods, she was such a woman.

Leliana cleared her throat and glanced up, signaling to the Warden. He looked back behind him.

"Grey Warden," Morrigan said. "May I have a word with you?"

"Go ahead."

"In private?"

He stood, followed her to her tent. She was deadly serious.

"You are acting like a child," she said. "I am very sorry for refusing you, but you cannot treat me like that."

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh, as if you did not know."

"I'm sorry? Did I offend you? I'm sorry, I didn't know. Huh. Wow. How did that happen? Did you spill your guts to me and I didn't care? Did you admit to wanting to be with me, and I told you to screw off?"

"I… I told you," she said. "I do not want a relationship with you. I want nothing from you."

"What about you? What do you want for yourself? I thought we were…"

"What?"

"I thought we were connecting," said Lance. "I thought we were… Never mind."

He turned to leave. But she stopped him.

"Warden. I said something that I shouldn't have. I said something in the hopes that you would not seek me for intimacy. I am sorry. I realize now that was a mistake. I… do not want you to leave me."

"I don't understand you."

"I wish that, in time, you will. Please, seek solace with the girl. She will provide what you seek in me."

"Andraste, don't you understand? I don't want _her_. I don't! I want _you_. Morrigan, I want to be with you."

"I cannot," she said. "You ask for commitment. It is not yours to take. You ask for emotion, for love, and it simply is not real."

"What do you want from me?"

"I… want you."

"And I want you."

"Then come to me," she said, extending her hand. "Come and share what I _can _give."

"I don't want one night with you."

"What then? What is it that you could ever possibly want? There is nothing else to have."

"I want…" he hesitated. Why bother? "Never mind. I'll leave you alone."

"No, wait!"

He turned, shoulders slumped. He couldn't bring himself to care much more about her.

"What?"

She too hesitated. She was shaking a bit, and he didn't want her to know that he saw. She would be so embarrassed.

"When I was a little girl," she said. "I was curious about your people. I crept to the edge of the Wilds and I saw a noblewoman in her carriage. It was beautiful, magnificent. I snuck up behind her and stole a golden mirror. It was so beautiful. Encrusted with gems and carvings, I was so happy to have it."

"And Flemeth?"

"She was _furious_," she said. Lance could see the distant, sad look Morrigan didn't realize she had. "You must understand, I risked _everything_ to take this… bauble. I risked _us_. She smashed it before me, to teach me the lesson."

"Maker, that's awful."

"It was not. It was an important lesson for me to learn. Had I been caught, they would have put me to the torch. They would have killed my mother. I had risked us for a shiny toy. I had to learn that it was not acceptable."

"How does this relate at all to-"

"I learned, from then on, that the only thing in this world that has meaning is power. Power and survival. That mirror was just a fleeting fancy. It would never have lasted. _You_ are just a fleeting fancy, and you too will fade in time."

"That's a hard thing to teach a child," said Lance. "But it isn't the way you have to live anymore."

"It isn't? Have I somehow ceased being an apostate, a witch? Have I become an acceptable human being to your society?"

"I mean… You don't have to live like that anymore because I…"

"Shut up," she said. "You cannot say that."

Lance slumped, hurt by Morrigan. And by Flemeth.

"Have you ever wondered?"

Morrigan looked at him, expectant. He hesitated. She was beautiful and she was smart and they wanted each other but she just wouldn't let herself _feel._

"About the little girl with the mirror. You ever wonder what would have happened to her."

"Every day," she replied.

And Lance left her to return to his own tent, alone. To sit in the dark while he removed his broken armor, alone. To lay back on his bedroll, wincing at the stinging sensation in his back, alone. To fall asleep, alone. And to dream of being alone.


	27. To Enter the Fade

Irving had accepted Lance's request to enter the Fade to save Connor. He reasoned that Lance had done so much for the Circle; the Circle had a lot to give for him. He rounded up a few mages and gathered up the lyrium, and had traveled with Lance and his group to Redcliffe.

Things between Lance and Morrigan had remained tense, and Leliana repeated her desire to help him, in any way possible.

"Please, Lance," she said. "I just can't go seeing you so heartbroken. And she is hurt, too; I can see it."

"Just leave it alone," said Lance. "It's not something that can be helped."

"She is such a bitch to reject you."

"Please, don't," Lance told her. "I don't need you defending me like that."

"But it is the truth! She is heartless, you said so. You are wounded, deeper than any other wound can cut, by an enemy you cannot face. It is so unfair."

"It isn't her fault," said Lance. He looked over to where she sat, still deciphering the book. He sighed. "I see her, and I see the woman that I met in the Wilds, the one that had been so strong and confident. And I see her mother. A malignant cancerous wretch of a woman and Morrigan doesn't see a damn thing wrong with it."

"It is hard for someone like her," said Leliana. "To exist in our society, when she has been so taught to reject it. Her home is like nothing you or I know. To her, the only thing that matters is surviving because for so long, that was all she had."

"But… I want to her have more. I want her to have…"

"I know," Leliana was once again resting her head on his shoulder, desperate to comfort the man that was so strong in her eyes. To see him in such shambles, fighting a war that he wasn't capable of winning. It just wasn't fair.

He continued the journey to Redcliffe, morose and introverted. He was reminded how he felt when Arl Howe had slaughtered his family. It was ruin. He was dying, he knew, of something worse than death.

The castle was wrapped in the same tense fog it had been when they approached just a few days ago. Guards had had taken up their posts again, bodies were being carted out, and the main hall was abuzz with quiet fear.

"The boy has been upstairs in his room," said Teagan. "We've been afraid to approach him."

"Good," said Irving. "That is good. We mustn't provoke the demon, lest it fully possess the boy."

"Oh, please don't hurt him," Isolde begged. "Please."

Irving nodded to her, assuring her that they would take all the necessary steps to keep the boy from coming to harm. He and the mages prepared the ritual, and Irving briefed Lance on what would come next.

"The demon will try to bargain with anyone sent to stop it. Do not be taken in by it," said Irving. "It will only lead to folly."

"Of course," said Lance. Irving was serious about that. He'd seen what had become of Uldred.

"We can only send one mage in after the demon. Who would like you to send?"

Lance thought it over. He had Wynne, which was an obvious choice. She was trained, experienced and powerful. Jowan was sitting down nearby, nervously drumming his fingers. The man wanted to repent and this might have been a good way to do it.

Irving himself was also a likely candidate; who better to fight a demon than the strongest Circle Mage in Ferelden?

And then there was Morrigan…

"Warden," she said, stepping forward. "I would ask that you send me."

Lance cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Why?"

"Because this requires someone of particular skill. Because you need to know that who you send will be successful."

"What about trustworthy?"

She glanced at the floor when he said that. She nodded.

"I would of course understand if you preferred to send someone else."

Lance thought about it. Only a mage could enter the Fade, and he was given an overabundance of choice. Jowan was a wild card; a blood mage. There was no way to know if he'd have the stomach for it, much less if he could even get the job done to begin with.

Irving might be necessary for the ritual, to make sure everything went according to plan. And besides his obvious magical strength he seemed to Lance to be quite frail. There was no telling if he could handle such a battle.

So his only choice was between Wynne and Morrigan.

He trusted Wynne, could count on her. She was powerful, and she knew much about the Fade. She would not fail, he knew.

But Morrigan was eager, wanting to do this. For what? Maybe as a method of apology, to show him that he could still count on her. Maybe it was a penance for her. Do something selfless and be forgiven by him. He knew how strong she was, knew what she was capable of doing.

And he wanted her to know that he was still okay with her.

"Yeah," said Lance. "Morrigan, you go."

She nodded to him, allowing a smile for only a moment. He sat down, a little anxious to see this done. He had no idea what he could expect, if she would make it. He felt helpless that he was sending someone else to fight, to partake in a battle that by all means should have been his. This was the one time he couldn't back her up, stand beside her.

He knew that he shouldn't care about her, that he should give her the exact same treatment she gave him. He should be mad, he should tell her to sit down and shut up. But he couldn't be. He didn't want to be.

He wanted to stand there and say, "Morrigan, if anyone can do this it's you. Make me proud."

He wanted her to know that forever he would support her, that he would always see her as a friend, a companion. And he would always want her to see in him what he saw for her, to feel what he felt.

And as the ritual began, and Morrigan lay on the ground, limp, Lance could only hope that she somehow knew.


	28. Concerning Connor

Morrigan was back in the Fade. It was a place she rarely trekked to, and had made a mental note to do so more rarely following the incident with Sloth. She was glad that Lance had trusted her with this one thing, even if she couldn't allow him to get any closer.

It was a folly in them both. It would lead to their deaths, she knew. And he would just be left heartbroken, if there was any of him left at all. And he would just have to accept that, however hard it was.

It hurt her, in a way, to see that she could do so much damage to so strong a man. She respected him, a rare admission for her. Even when he did things that were by all means _stupid_ he somehow managed to make sense of it. He was a powerful, capable warrior, someone that should have been born into the same strength that had gifted her life.

She admitted to feeling a bit of sympathy for him. His past was one that would have been difficult for him, she tried to understand. But it was so strange for him to display such weaknesses when he should have, by all means, been so much stronger.

She resented him for that.

But she was also intrigued.

Mother had often told her that men were frivolous, that men all desired but one thing from any woman, and Lance surely could be no different. Yet, he insisted otherwise, even when she offered it to him freely. He insisted that he was after something deeper, something that he just could not obtain.

And it was stranger for her to want him to want it. She wanted so much from this man, and she could not for the life of her understand why. He was a man, and she only sought what she ever sought from men; wonderful sensations. And even she could provide that for herself.

Yet she wanted Lance to be the one to provide such things for her. And more. It was so strange to her. She desired something intangible from him, something that would last beyond a night of passion.

And it was why she had asked him to stay away from her, why she had insisted he not want her. And it was why she was in the Fade on a fool's errand.

This particular dream world was inhabited by the spirits and wills of both the boy and the Arl. The boy had approached the demon for help in aiding his father, or the demon had approached the boy, it did not matter. That left the wandering spirits of both the boy and the father, trapped in that otherworldly dimension by the demon.

The Arl was still alive, as per their agreement, and the demon could willingly possess the boy. However the demon was just keeping the Arl alive and the boy was left on the wayside. So long as this demon kept its hold on the family, the Arl would never wake.

Morrigan had to find this creature and slay it. And she was good at that part.

She wandered a bit, examining the spirits as they called for each other. She paid them little attention. Her staff was in her hand, and she was prepared to contend with whatever tricks the demon put before her.

Soon she found what she was looking for. The boy, trapped in the Fade, in an illusory representation of his bedroom. The boy regarded her with wide eyes. What he thought she was, she could not tell.

"You!" he shouted. "You poisoned father! I won't let you kill him."

She sighed. She had little desire for children and she had far less patience for them. The boy was not who she wanted to face.

"Run along," she told him. "Go play. Or whatever."

"No!" the boy shouted. The demon had evidently taken control. "The boy is mine!"

He transformed, light briefly blinding Morrigan. The desire demon appeared in his place, reaching out with her talons.

Morrigan recoiled, bringing her staff up and letting a spike of magical energy impact the demon's midsection.

The demon reached out, trying to grasp Morrigan's soul. But she would not go down so easily. Morrigan rolled out of the demon's reach, confounding it. It wasn't the true demon, not at all. It was only a fraction of the demon's power and so it vanished under the inferno Morrigan summoned.

The demon was playing hard to get, simply trying to fool Morrigan into leaving it alone. But she had made herself a promise; to bring Lance victory. And this would be one promise she would keep no matter the cost to herself.

The demon had moved itself within the Fade, having taken up residency on one of its other innumerable islands. She turned and set out to find where it had to gone to ground.

Of course the demon on some level wanted to be found. It was in their nature. They just couldn't deny indulging in mortals. This particular demon had done what few had ever managed; possessed a willing mortal.

Morrigan tired of its games, wanting to find it and kill it and be done with all the triviality. So when she finally tracked the demon down, again disguised as the boy, she was less than tactful when dealing with it.

"Face me, creature," she demanded. "Do not hide behind your lies and illusions."

"You cannot comprehend my power, mortal," the demon-Connor warned. "Turn back. There is nothing for you here."

"I will tell you only once more," said Morrigan. "Face me."

The boy disappeared again, replaced by the illusory demon. Morrigan wasted no time allowing lightning from her fingertips to arc across the creature's body. She was beyond these games at this point. If the fiend would not face her in its full power, then she would break it.

She summoned more lightning, allowing her fingertips to burn from the energy. All that mattered was victory. All that she wanted was victory. All that Lance would care about was victory.

The demon fell to its knees, vanishing once more and leaving Morrigan to again seek it out. The spirits of the Fade harassed her, accusing her alternately of having taken the boy and poisoning the Arl. She remained aloof, above the petty creatures and their ceaseless speaking.

She hunted the demon down, again finding it in the form of the boy, still defiant despite Morrigan's overwhelming power.

"I will not continue these games, demon," she said. "Face me at once."

"Never! Die, mortal, die!"

The boy became a demon once more and she summoned a pair of rage demons to aid her. Morrigan could only shake her head at the demon's incompetence. With a wave of her staff, Morrigan conjured ice and frost to consume the rage demons, holding them in their tracks.

The desire demon charged her, seeking to kill Morrigan outright. The witch ducked and rolled, allowing the demon to pass far to her right. She thought about how Lance would handle such an attack, and responded in her best approximation.

She lashed out with her staff, slamming it into the demon's nose and causing it to fall back. She followed this up with a magical prison, crushing whatever semblance of life the demon had. It vanished shortly after, leaving Morrigan to once more track it down.

She knew it was weakened, and it had finally decided to face her head-to-head. There was no more time for games, for illusions, they were going to square off. And when she returned, victorious, and with the boy alive, Lance would have no choice but to forgive her actions. She would have won by the very rules he would have played by. She was emulating him, hoping against hope that he would be satisfied with what he saw.

That he would be satisfied with her.

She knew it was irrational, that she was being foolish. She had spurned him already, had hurt him in the deepest manner she knew how, and she regretted that now. But she had to do it. She had to save him.

And that was all she could think about as she faced the desire demon. She had to save Lance Cousland from the harm she would bring him.

"No more tricks," said the demon. "No more illusions. Just you and I. We are both more powerful than the other had expected. Perhaps this confrontation can come to a peaceful solution?"

"No," said Morrigan. "There is nothing you have that I could possibly want. Be gone."

"There is nothing I can offer you? No, not I. But what of another? Is there something _he_ could offer you?"

"Do not bring the man into this," said Morrigan, taking the defensive. "I will not be taken in by your tricks."

The demon transformed, using her powers of illusion to present Morrigan with a form it thought she would find pleasing. And this creature was able to hit a little too close to home.

"Morrigan…"

"You… are mistaken creature. There is nothing here that would ever entice me to spare you," she said. It wasn't entirely true, of course.

"Morrigan, you know me," said the creature.

"Stay back."

"Come here," said the creature. She'd taken the one form she was unable to fight, the one form she would react to. Had it been anybody else she would have slain it outright, but…

She didn't know if she could kill Lance.

"I will not, demon. Leave this form at once. This will be your only warning."

"Aw, Morrigan, don't get like that," said Lance, approaching her. "Just relax a bit. Please."

"Stay away."

"Come on, Morrigan," he said. "I've been alone so long. Don't do this to me."

She jumped at his touch. He was upon her, one arm snaking around her. His other hand was sliding up her arm to cradle her neck. He was leaning in.

"Don't play hard to get. Not now. I just need someone right now. And I want it to be you."

Morrigan couldn't help herself. She was unused to showing any kind of restraint and, given his rather cold attitude towards her, this might be her one chance to have any sort of intimate contact with him. And it might be fun to have a quick fling with Lance and he would never really know. It would be something she could think of while she spent hours following him through some ruin or whatnot.

His breath was on her neck, hot and teasing. She imagined quickly all the things she could do and get away with. He would be none the wiser.

"Just once, Morrigan," he whispered. "Just once, please."

And that snapped her out of it. Lance had made it very clear that he did not want a "one-time thing" with her. The demon realized its mistake, tried to correct.

"Morrigan I'm aching for you. Please, you can't leave me like this. I need you so much. I can almost taste you."

His lips came close to hers, and she felt them very briefly touch.

And the demon was sent backwards, holding its groin. Morrigan had given it a well-deserved strike with her knee.

"Nice try, demon," she said. "But I was raised better than that."

She lifted her staff, cracked the false demon on the side of the head.

"I will not be taken in by you," she said. "'Tis a foolish demon that thinks itself stronger than I."

She hit it with a blast of magic, watching it jump and twitch. She hit again. And again. And again until all that remained was a smoking, burnt mass of demonic flesh. The deed was done. The boy was free.

Soon enough the world around her was dissolving as she returned to consciousness in the real world.

She blinked herself awake, eyes blurry. Someone was leaning over her, a man, a familiar man. Lance.

"Did you do it?"

"What?" she gasped, afraid he might somehow know about the illusion.

"Kill the demon, free the kid, all the stuff you were _sent_ to do."

"Oh. Yes. Though I was not _sent_ as you may recall, I volunteered myself. I would thank you to remember it."

"Right," Lance stood offering his hand to help her up. She took it, and hoped that he would not notice her shaking. He looked her over, and Morrigan stood straighter in hopes that he would find what he saw to be acceptable.

"You're flushed," said Lance. She stammered out an explanation.

"I… It was tiring, and I was very much incensed when I confronted…"

"She – it – didn't try to…"

"…Make an offer?"

"Yeah. I mean, those desire demons can be pretty, uh, persuasive."

"Yes. He made an attempt but it did not work."

"Right. Never does. Not even tempting."

"Not at all."

"Excuse me," said Bann Teagan. "But we are rather curious to know the outcome of your journey."

"I was successful," Morrigan said. Lance nodded.

"Thanks a ton, Irving; we couldn't have done it without you."

Morrigan felt a pang. He was making a conscious effort to slight her, to let her know his displeasure, his own hurt. It was his way. He cared too much for her to try to hurt her with his own words, but he felt the pain too keenly to just forget it.

She wished it weren't so.

She was sorry for her words, and now wished that she could take them back. Only she didn't. She wanted him to know that they could never be anything together. He had to save himself from her.

"Warden," she said. He turned, and she wanted to tell him everything.

"What?"

"Never mind."


	29. The Road to Denerim

"The Arl is still sick," said Bann Teagan, watching cautiously as Connor played out in the hall with his toys. "The boy is better, though. That's something at least."

"Is there no way to heal him?" asked Isolde. "Is there nothing we can do?"

"The Urn of Sacred Ashes," said Bann Teagan. "I'd nearly forgotten."

"The Urn of what now?" asked Lance. Leliana stepped in.

"The Urn of Sacred Ashes," she told him. "It's said to be the very urn that holds Andraste's ashes. It's supposed to have supernatural healing powers. But it's just a myth!"

"So we thought," said Bann Teagan. "But a scholar in Denerim has been spending many years researching the legends, and he thinks that there might just be some credence to the tales. We sent out a number of our knights weeks ago, before the undead. Though, we've not heard from them."

"Perhaps we should go," said Lance. Morrigan sighed loudly.

"You may just be going on a fool's errand," Teagan said. "We've no proof that it even exists."

"Well we need the Arl's help, regardless. So he either gets better now, or we spend the rest of our very short lives searching for some mythical ashes."

"If this is what you think is wise. I can give you the directions to Brother Genitivi's house in Denerim."

"That would be excellent," said Lance. "We will get underway immediately."

Denerim was a few days hike from Redcliffe, and it would eat a considerable chunk of their time. He hoped the Blight would wait for them.

The camp was quiet, as ever, and Lance found himself restless. He'd been moving so much in the past days, more than he'd ever done in his life, yet when he should be glad for the momentary respite he found himself unable to sit still.

He wanted to go for a run, to climb the trees. He felt like tearing off his own skin in frustration. At least then he'd have something to do. He was lying on the ground, pretending to snuff out the stars with his thumb and forefinger when Morrigan approached him.

"Warden, I feel that we should talk. Candidly."

"Are you ever not candid?"

"Yes. Though I find that those times are few and far between."

"Then start talking. Before I get bored of you."

She hesitated. He looked up at her, noticing that she was indeed troubled. He felt bad for being so rude. But he knew that if he tried to be nicer to her, he'd just end up breaking his own heart.

"Warden, I have said some things to you," she said, obviously struggling to find the right words. "Things that I regret. I have wounded you, deeply. Far deeper than I had any right to. I wish for you to accept my apology. Sincerely."

"Save it."

"I cannot. I must know that you understand why I spoke in such a… horrid manner."

"I understand completely," he said. He rose to his feet, looking her in the eye. She was a head shorter than him. In his armor he seemed to be about twice her size, though that didn't say a whole lot. She was unfathomably pretty to him, and even her unsure frown seemed to him to be just one of the millions of things he loved about her. But he couldn't afford such distractions.

"You said what you said to hurt me. That was your goal. And it worked. I don't know what your problem is and I no longer care. To think that I once felt sorry for you!"

"You felt… sorry for me?"

"Yes. I thought your life was a tale devoid of happiness. I thought you were a woman who had been shattered, without even knowing it. I had hoped that I could be there to pick up the pieces, to put you back together. I thought that maybe you wanted me to. I thought that we could have something special. I see now that I was wrong."

"Warden, you do not know-"

"I know plenty. I know your true colors now. You, Morrigan, are a heartless, cruel bitch of a woman and I should never have allowed myself to think that you could ever be a friend – or anything else – to me."

She looked stunned, as though his very words had knocked her senseless. Perhaps in some ways they had. And Lance wanted them to.

"You see?" he asked. "This is what _you_ did to me. You know, there was a time when I would really have done anything to gain your notice. But no more. I just want this done. And you can go back to your mother in your Wilds and never bother me again."

He turned to leave, to go for a long walk through the woods beside their camp. He needed the air, to clear his mind. He didn't know what it was about the witch that put him such a state. But just looking at her made his blood boil and his heart race and all sorts of feelings he never knew came to the surface. And all at once he hated her. Let her go and never return.

She stood behind him, watching him walk off. It wasn't in her nature to be so easily hurt, but when it came from someone who she cared much about, who had shown her nothing but kindness…

Mother had been right. There was no affection in the world, nothing besides endless hours of torment that resulted in a hollow shell of a person where once there had been life. There was nothing two people, man and woman, could share that did not result in such a decay. There was nothing she could ever have felt for that man besides putrid, bitter hate, just the same as he felt for her.

And while she did still think fondly of him, she knew that only went so far as to inspire certain womanly urges, things that any man of any caliber could sate. And yet, as she regarded the only other men in camp impassively, she found herself no longer wishing for anyone else.

She longed to return to her tent and carry on the discussions she and the Warden shared. She longed to have him once more leave the camp fire he so long rested beside, to make the walk to where she sequestered herself away from the others, to ask her questions about her upbringing and about her training.

"_You're cute when you're being evasive."_

Oh, that he would once more look at her with something other than wordless disgust.

But it would be better this way, in the end. They could never have anything worthwhile, and she would only disappoint him. She was almost sad that the girl had given up her pursuance of the Warden. He deserved to have the sort of happiness he sought in her.

Morrigan quietly returned to her tent, to continue study of mother's grimoire.

Lance was just outside the camp, well in sight of the others but far enough to be by himself. He stared out in the wilderness.

"Who does she think she is?" he muttered to himself. "Where does she get off?"

He was an idiot. He'd allowed himself to grow fond of the witch, despite all his better judgment. Maybe he'd just been looking for someone, after the whole mess with his family and Arl Howe. Maybe he just wanted someone else. Maybe he was just a child after all.

"You know," said Zevran, approaching him from behind. The guy was sneaky as hell, and Lance realized that he hadn't heard him coming at all. A bad thing for him. "Where I come from it is not polite to talk to a lady in such a manner."

"You heard that, did you?"

"Oh, Elf ears, don't you know. Useful for things other than looks."

"Well, if I ever need dating advice or gossip from the next town over I'll call you, eh?"

"Ouch. The boss has his blades out tonight."

"What do you want, Zevran?"

"Call me Zev."

"Zevran."

"I was just wondering if this was how our fearless leader often approaches women."

Lance spun on him, giving him the same glare that he'd just given to Morrigan.

"What is it to you?"

"Nothing. It is just a simple curiosity on my part. I couldn't help but notice the way you look at her, and the way she looks at you. And the way our pretty little redheaded friend looks at you. In all honesty, I am a bit jealous. If only I could have women flocking to me as you do. Not that I have any trouble in the 'flocking' department, mind you."

"What?"

"I mean to say this: why the hostility between you and lovely Morrigan?"

"No hostility."

"Oh, don't try to fool me. Zev is many things but he is not a fool."

"I'm sure."

"So, please, just pretend for one moment that I am a sympathetic ear. A shoulder to cry on, if need be."

Lance wasn't too thrilled about the idea. Though, he did wish someone to talk to, if only to make sense of it all for himself. He'd hoped Alistair would approach him, but Zevran might have been as good as anyone else. At any rate, Lance needed to hear himself lay it out plain.

"I don't know. I just… tried too hard, I suppose. I wanted too much from her too soon? She is very beautiful, and fun, and there's so much about her that I just want to know. To heal her, maybe. To make her mine, and I hers. I want to know that every time I wake up she'll be there and I'll never have to wonder about her."

"Ah, yes. Such tenderness. Quite the folly for a man."

"It is. You know, we've been out here, running around almost getting killed for weeks together. I know it doesn't make a whole lot of sense but I feel so strongly for her. I've only had such a feeling for one other woman in my life…" he hesitated again. Did he dare relate this tale to Zevran? He looked at the Elf, wondering if it would be a wise thing to do. But to his credit Zevran got the idea.

"Say no more," he said. "We all have people – women – in our pasts that we would rather not discuss."

"Thanks. But, I mean, Morrigan is just so…"

"Pretty?"

"Hurt," said Lance. "She's so vile. I think that if things had been different I'd never have spent more than five minutes with her. But to hear her tell it, there was never any choice for her. She's an apostate, a witch. She was raised by the most rancid woman imaginable. I just… I don't know."

"There is a… connection," said Zevran. "Between you two? Wordless. In a way you know her better than anyone else ever could. She's a mystery to everyone but you."

"Yeah," said Lance, taken aback by Zevran's perceptiveness. "How did you-"

He held up a finger, cutting Lance off. "And did you tell her this?"

"I tried."

"And she rebuked you."

"Most viciously. She said something that I would have killed someone else for saying," Lance admitted. "I wanted to kill her then."

Zevran took on a different expression. One of… Remorse? Could he, an assassin, actually have shown remorse for something he'd done?

"That would be most unwise," said Zevran. "Most unwise."

"I see. It's not like I could have ever raised my blade to her anyway."

"Perhaps she is scared?"

"Of what?"

"Of you."

"Of me? Why? I wouldn't dare hurt her. I'd sooner have killed myself than tried. I…"

"You what?"

"Nothing. It's nothing. I only wish that she knew how I felt, all of it. That she knew the full force of my emotions for her, that she knew how desperately I long for her, even now."

"And have you ever taken a moment to ask her how _she_ felt?"

"I already know. She is… a monster. She is incapable of feeling what I feel for her. She only knows Morrigan. And Morrigan is nothing I could ever desire. Not anymore."

"You are a liar."

Zevran turned to leave, and Lance watched him. He hadn't been too thrilled about taking the assassin with him. Logic dictated that it was unwise to keep healthy a man that tried to kill you, but here he was, Zevran in tow. And maybe it had been a good idea after all.

Part of Lance wanted to take Morrigan by storm right then, to march up to her in camp, lay all his feelings out in the open. He wanted to tell her that he didn't care what she thought about love, that he wasn't here to entertain her foolish upbringing. He wanted to tell her that he was going to be there, for eternity if need be, until she saw in him what he saw in her. He was going to wait until the world burned for her to know the same feelings of need and longing and lust that he held.

But he knew that was irrational - and quite creepy - and that he'd do more harm than good. The bottom line was that she didn't care for him. And he would have to accept that. No amount of longing in the world would change that. He'd have to let it die.

He was alone now. The broken son of a dead family. It was time he gave up any hope of a life better than this. The most he could have now was revenge. And that in time he would be vindicated in his feelings, and that Morrigan would one day miss him.

He returned to camp, to his tent, carrying with him the knowledge that in the morning they would be at Denerim and he and Morrigan would be that much closer to parting ways forever.


	30. Denerim

"Wait a minute," said Lance, seeing Morrigan packing up her belongings, prepared to head out with the rest of the group. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I am going into the city with you," she said simply. Lance shook his head.

"No you aren't," he said. She laughed.

"And for how long have you been under the impression that I was at your command?"

"Look, myself, Alistair and Leliana are going. That's more than enough. We're just here to see some guy not take on the entire palace guard."

"I refuse to remain here with only your _dog_ for company."

"Wynne and Zevran will be here, too."

"And that is supposed to deter me? No. I go where you go."

"Why?"

"Because… because I long to see the city. I grew up in the Wilds, as you are well aware. Part of the reason my mother sent me with you was so that I could expand the horizon of my experience. This is a perfect time to do just that."

Lance crossed his arms, not wanting to give up but knowing he'd already lost just by the fact that Morrigan had made up her mind.

"Fine," he said. "But don't expect me to like it."

"I do not expect any such thing."

Denerim was supposed to have been the jewel of Ferelden. And it was, in many ways. It was the single largest city in Ferelden's holdings and Lance had only seen but a fraction of it during his many visits. Though those visits were on noble business. Genitivi was supposed to live adjacent to the market district, which was good luck for them. Lance could stand to do a bit of window shopping.

Morrigan was right behind him, looking as defiant as she possibly could. In truth she was a bit apprehensive about entering a city for the first time. Based on Flemeth's descriptions of such places it was supposed to be a vast tract of land filled to the clouds with buildings and people, further than the eye could see. She wondered how much was true and whether or not she would be lost in the ebb and flow of things.

But Lance was experienced in such manners pertaining to human society, and she reasoned that he wouldn't let her come into harm, despite whatever actions he may have taken to the contrary. He was noble, both in title and in spirit, and it would be against his nature to allow her to be injured if he could help. Or she was at least counting on that.

In truth, she desired as much from him, just as she would be willing to do the same, though it screamed against her nature. There was something altogether inspiring about him. She often wondered what it was about him that gave him such a charismatic presence.

Alistair was senior to him, and yet the young fool of a Templar would have followed him to his death. The girl adored him and had even begun to regard Morrigan with disdain, likely in trade for her rebuking his advances. The assassin seemed overeager to please him, often trying to take on the most dangerous duties available. The old mage, too, worked to earn his respect, though he showered her with it every time they spoke.

In fact, he spoke highly of everyone _but _Morrigan. And that hurt. Her ego demanded that he show a certain amount of respect for her talents, but something deeper, something in her gut, quietly begged for any sort of attention he might offer.

She had half a mind to walk right up to him and demand her due. Demand that he tell her everything about her that attracted him to her, demand that he spend the next several hours with her, talking as they ever had. And that he promise to be hers, once and for all.

But it was foolish of her to think such thoughts. Flemeth would have admonished her for it. She would have cut it from her soul, had she known how. There were times when Morrigan longed for the simplicity of her life in the Wilds, before having met Lance Cousland. Before having watched him sleep, having heard him talk about his family.

He brought up feelings that she was sure she had destroyed alongside that golden mirror so many years ago. She wanted it to stop, to be certain. But she also wanted it to be known, if even so that she herself could acknowledge it. It was a conflict within her that she despised.

She wanted nothing to do with such feelings of infatuation and need and want and all sorts of other things she didn't even know the words for. It was disgusting, nauseating. Yet it was so pleasant. She hated how it made her feel. But she liked being near him, seeing him smile at her. She liked trading barbs, the light flirting. She wanted to tell him, she was dying to tell him. But he would refuse her, surely. A man like him needed no distractions, and she needed nothing from him regardless.

She would, in the future, let it be known that she wasn't opposed to spending the night with him, provided his hatred of her had died down. That would be the extent of their relationship, and he would have to be satisfied with it. As would she.

When they came to Denerim, Morrigan hadn't anything to say.

"Oh," she muttered, staring up at its high walls. Mother would have reminded her that it was only the creation of men and easily toppled. But at this moment she was too taken in by its sheer magnificence to think such a thing.

"It's impressive," said Lance. He looked at her and for once he wasn't glaring. "Come on."

He reached out, offering his hand. She was hesitant to take it. It just might have been that he was giving her a peace offering, willing to finally relax his guard around her. She took it finally, allowing him to gently squeeze her hand.

Mother had struggled to educate her of the finer points of society. She had no idea how to respond to simple gestures or to the smirks and grins others often greeted her with. She'd once lamented to Lance her inability to understand touching one's hand as a form of greeting, relating that it was an intrusive invasion of privacy and one that irked her to no end.

However she found this to be a most welcome invasion, one that she was eager to accept.

He looked somehow relieved, and his brow furrowed as it often did when he was trying to appear nonchalant. It meant quite a bit to him, she could tell. And it meant a lot to her as well. Though she could never let him know.

So he led her through the gates of Denerim, holding her hand the entire time. He was an astute guide, and she could tell that he had been there many times before.

He took them directly to the market district, where a number of merchants were set up under tents, displaying their wares. It was something utterly foreign to Morrigan. Lance said nothing as they went, and didn't even pay the merchants so much as a nod.

She could tell that this was all old hat to him. He'd seen it before and he looked satisfied enough. She was curious, though and tried to ask, as politely as she could manage, to explore some of the shops.

"Perhaps we should use our time wisely," she said. "Instead of going to this so-called scholar, why don't we have a look around? Perhaps make the purchase of some finer items than are currently in our possession?"

"You mean you want some jewelry?" Lance asked, smirking. She returned his devilish smile.

"Oh, if you were so inclined," she said. "I would not object. Though, I would be more concerned with the state of my armor, were I you."

He looked down at his cracked and worn scale cuirass. It had definitely seen better days. Any rougher treatment and it would fall off of him. Morrigan was no expert on the subject but she was sure that a noble such as he deserved something more fitting.

"I guess you're right," Lance said. He reached into his satchel. "It's funny. I've been lugging around all this money and I haven't even spent any of it. We can't have that."

He pulled out a handful of gold coins. Sovereigns, if Morrigan wasn't mistaken. It was certainly more money than she had ever held.

"Do you guys just want to split up?" he asked. "Maybe spend some cash?"

"Sure," said Alistair. Lance gave him the handful, and gave another to Leliana. He took a third handful and gestured for Morrigan to hold out her palms.

"Are you certain?" she asked, barely able to believe that he was willing to just give out money like this. It was one of those traits that confused her. Here was a man who stepped cautiously nearly every time he woke and yet he was offering her a large sum of money. And more disturbingly he had no intention of making her exchange something.

"Take it," he insisted. "Buy yourself something pretty."

She rather liked the sound of that. Perhaps there was somewhere she could obtain a new book of spells or two. Perhaps even new clothes. Or jewelry, as he had suggested. She had a fine eye for the pretty things of the human world, and often found herself daydreaming of that noble woman whose mirror she'd stolen.

Oh, what life must have been for that woman! To wake every morning knowing you were to be showered with praise and gifts and gold. But Lance must have been used to that, surely. He was nobility.

When the others had gone, and Morrigan stood there before Lance, holding more money than she ever thought possible, she asked him questions.

"Is this common?"

"What?"

"To give money to others, carelessly."

"Well, no. Not this much, no."

"Then why do it?"

"I thought it would be a nice thing to do."

"Nice?"

"Yes."

"For me?"

"Yes."

"Tell me something, Lance. Is it often that you are nice?"

"I would like to think so."

"Just not to me?"

He sighed. "Look, I'm sorry. I know I've been a total and complete asshole. I'm sorry."

"Yes, you should be. I know that what I said is unforgivable, but I hoped that we could maintain… cordial attitudes towards one another."

He nodded, grabbing her wrist and leading her around the market. He was talking as he did so, though Morrigan did not mind to listen.

"I don't really know what to say. I feel things for you, Morrigan, things that I've never felt for any woman. Not even-"

He cut himself off. She tilted her head, intrigued. There was a story there, and he would one day share with her, no doubt.

"Warden," she said. "I told you that I do not seek such things from you."

"I know. I know I can't change your heart," he said. He looked at her, and she realized that this was what honesty looked like, face-to-face. "I just need for you to know that I do feel it. I'll never stop. It hurts me to know you won't feel the same for me, but I'm okay with that. Just know that I do."

He looked ready to do something, anything. She couldn't quite tell. He was smiling, sort of. And there was this watery glint in his eyes, as though he were crying.

"Morrigan, I-"

He never got to finish.

"You there, Ser!" said an armored man, rapidly approaching. "You are a Grey Warden! I remember you from Ostagar."

"Yeah, what of it?" Lance asked. He didn't like the man's demeanor, and neither did Morrigan. She saw Lance tense, making himself ready to fight. Morrigan did the same.

"You, Ser, killed my King and my comrades!"

"You are quite mistaken. It was Loghain that killed the King."

"You would slander Teyrn Loghain on top of all your other crimes? Have you no honor?"

"You want honor?"

"Yes. I demand satisfaction. We shall settle this nobly. Meet in the alley behind the tavern. We will settle our dispute there."

He turned and promptly walked away. Morrigan stepped forward, eager to launch some magical attack at him. Lance stopped her.

"This is about honor," he said. She nodded. It was a male thing, she was sure. They were two boys, with a dispute, and they would settle it the only way they knew how. By facing each other and fighting to the death.

She briefly worried that Lance was going to throw himself at his enemy once more, but she reminded herself of his capabilities, of his skill, and she was satisfied that he would win this match. There would be no contest.

They met in the ally, and the knight was flanked by three of his comrades.

"You have decided to honor our duel," said the knight. "I am impressed. We shall handle this with the utmost honor."

Lance nodded, drawing his weapons. Morrigan found that it took a great deal of restraint to keep herself from leaping in after him. It went against her every instinct to stand back and watch him fight, possibly killing himself in the process.

What if he were to die? Then where would they be? She would be stuck following Alistair now, having to rely on him to have the stomach to…

No. She wouldn't go there.

Lance would win. That was his way.

The knight came forward, bringing his blade down, hard. Lance rolled aside, allowing the blade to embed itself in the dirt where he had just stood. He followed up by lodging his dagger in the knight's throat, cutting his head off with a flourish of his wrist.

The whole duel took a little less than a minute. Morrigan was quite astonished. She had become used to his natural speed, the grace with which he approached combat. His movements were loud, certainly, but he approached it with such precision that it was often difficult for her to imagine him leading a life at court with other fat, spongy nobles.

And it simply astonished her how well he could fight. The few warriors she had ever encountered, Templars and Chasind alike, were clumsy beings that had nothing behind them but raw energy. Here Lance transformed it into finesse, into accuracy. Perhaps it had something to do with the Taint of the Grey Wardens.

The knight's entourage looked horrified. That their master had been so easily cut down, it was unthinkable! Morrigan readied herself to fight them, if they tried to claim some revenge.

One of their number stepped forth, and said, "You fought honorably, Warden. Ser Landry couldn't have asked for a better death."

The three took their master's corpse and carted it off, leaving the head behind. Lance looked at Morrigan. He was somewhere between solemn and proud.

"Well?" he asked her. She scoffed.

"Is this a common occurrence in cities, or is it just you?"

"Guess it's me. This is only the fourth time this has ever happened. Honest."

She shook her head, unable to stop the laugh that rose in her throat. He had a habit of making her laugh, even when she didn't want to.


	31. The Witch of the Wilds

Brother Genitivi's house had been just off the alley where Lance had massacred Ser Landry so they paid him a visit. Lance didn't bother knocking. The door was open so he entered.

"Hello?" he called. Morrigan was pretty sure that it was considered polite to knock.

"Who's there?" asked a young man, suddenly appearing from the back room. "Who are you?"

"I am Lance," he said. "This is Morrigan. We're looking for Brother Genitivi."

"Oh. He's not here I'm afraid," said the young man. "I'm Weylon."

"Do you know when the Brother will be back?"

Weylon shook his head. He crossed his arms, a bit agitated.

"No idea, I'm afraid. I had actually hoped that you might know where he went to."

"He hasn't told you?"

"No. All he said was that he was going to investigate some inn on Lake Calenhad. Some knights from Redcliffe came by, asking about his whereabouts, and I directed them to the same place."

"Oh. Well, do you know if he had any information on the Urn of Sacred Ashes?"

"Actually, that's what he was after."

"Do you think it was at that inn?"

"I don't know. He didn't talk to me about it very much. I did a little picking through his notes and found that he was staying at that inn."

"Oh," said Lance. He looked around the house. It was pretty decent for a Chantry hovel. The long table was covered in books and eating utensils. The place hadn't been cleaned for weeks.

Wait a minute.

"Didn't you just say he _told_ you he was headed for the inn?"

"Yes."

"But you said you only found out through his notes."

"I mean he told me, and then I looked through his notes."

Morrigan reached out, squeezing Lance's arm. A sure warning. She knew something was up, as did he. Lance acted first.

He grabbed Weylon's head, smashed it into the table. That set him groggy. Lance smashed again.

When Weylon was out, Lance set to quickly examining the hovel. Morrigan stayed watchful of the man. The back room must have been some sort of study. A corpse lay on the floor, covered by a rug. No doubt the _real_ Weylon. Whoever this guy was, he was sending people into ambushes.

"Morrigan," Lance shouted. "Kill him."

"At once, my liege," he said back. The sound of skull and wood connecting resounded a few times as Lance rifled through the mess of books and papers on the table. Morrigan was beside him.

"That one," she said, pointing to a book by his feet. He reached down, picked it up.

"Genitivi's journal. Good eye."

He flipped to the last entry, skimming it until he got to the bottom. Morrigan examined some of the Brother's personal possessions, so Lance read aloud.

"Looks like he got rumor of a village called 'Haven' up in the mountains. Little map and everything. Says he was headed there and would leave Weylon – that's the poor slob under the rug – to watch over things here."

"So who, then, was our host? Who has a glass skull, by the way."

"I guess it's someone from Haven? Someone who didn't much care for the Brother looking for a pot of Sacred Ashes?"

"I suppose. So are we to head there immediately?"

"No reason not to, right?"

"No."

Lance glanced over his shoulder at her. She sounded a bit disappointed. It was an unusual thing for him to hear from her. She saw his concern.

"I had only hoped that we might do more exploring. 'Tis not often I get to visit a real human settlement."

"Ah. Well we can always come back, once this is over. If you'd like."

She glanced away from him. "Yes. When this is over."

"Something wrong?"

"No. Not at all."

He reached out, touched her shoulder. There was a tingle of electricity there. He had longed to do this.

"Morrigan," he said. "I mean everything I said earlier. When this is done, when we've stopped the Darkspawn, I want to spend some time with you. Just the two of us."

She nodded to him. "Yes. If that is what you wish."

"Is it what you wish?"

"I… do not know."

"When will you know?"

"Warden, do not ask me this," she said. She turned away from him, facing the wall. She sighed, and Lance wondered if this would make for a good moment to dramatically approach her. He could take her by the shoulders, spin her around and kiss her.

But he didn't.

"I'll wait for you," said Lance. She glanced back at him.

"You are a strange man, Warden."

He laughed. "You aren't the first to say so."

Morrigan had related her desire to see mountains. Lucky for her Haven was all the way in the Frostback Mountains. She had been quite awed by Denerim and secretly afraid of it. She would never say such to the Warden for fear that he would think less of her.

She had often viewed the mountains to the far west of the Korcari Wilds, and had often wondered what they were like. Lance seemed far less thrilled by such a thing, and Morrigan reasoned that this, like Denerim, was simply a part of his every day life. Or perhaps he was more concerned with the Blight and matters of being a Grey Warden.

She wondered if he truly knew the extent of what it meant to be a Grey Warden, what it meant to stop a Blight. She knew that sooner or later she would have to tell him. And she dreaded that moment.

He watched her often on the road between Denerim and the mountains. It was hard for her not to notice. He sometimes had a look of deep contemplation, as though he were examining her or himself for anything that might be of interest to him. Other times he smiled. It was a small thing, and she wondered if he even knew he was doing it.

She liked it, though. Make no mistake.

They were in camp, having traveled across half of Ferelden on their way to the Frostbacks. The big mountains loomed in the distance, even as the sun set behind them. It was beautiful in many ways, and Morrigan knew that it was far finer than anything she could ever possess.

And that angered her. It wasn't fair. No matter how strong she became, no matter how powerful, there would always be something stronger and more beautiful that she could never have.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" Lance asked. She was sitting under her tent, warming her hands by the fire. It was colder out now, the snow season rapidly approaching. He was holding a bowl, some sort of stew of Alistair's making.

"I suppose not," she said. "You are our stalwart leader, and you may sit where you like."

"Thank you," he said. She thought it was strange of him to say that. He may have meant it in a sarcastic manner, but he seemed sincere. He sat beside her, near to the fire.

He took a few sips from the bowl, grimacing. She shook her head at him. What a fool to humor his fellow Warden by stomaching his gruel.

"I have plenty of my own supper left over," she told him. "I would be happy to share."

"I'd like that."

She handed him the pot, and he tossed out his stew. She had half a loaf of bread for him and he took it gladly. He looked strange to her. He was a strong man, a powerful man. He was a warrior. He killed men on almost a daily basis and took it in stride. Yet here, leaning over a bowl of soup, eating with a handful of bread, he was alien to her.

He was a man. And she thought that it was how he might look if they were to ever forge a life together.

But what a fool thought that was.

He looked over at her, as he had done several times during the past day. She didn't mind. He was smiling at her now, cheeks swollen with food.

"What?" he asked around a mouthful. She smiled demurely.

"You are strange to me, Warden. A paradox. 'Tis very strange to see such a man here, eating like a commoner."

"How would you expect me to eat?"

"Oh, I always thought that a high-born noble should conduct himself with grace and dignity."

He slurped up the broth that had settled at the bottom of the bowl.

"Am I not dignified?"

She laughed. "Maybe if we were in the Wilds. You certainly have an air of superiority unmatched even by mother."

"Well, aren't you the flatterer."

"I have my moments," she said. She watched a little more as he finished eating. He licked the bowl clean, something that conjured up a few very dirty thoughts.

"You're a good cook," he said. "I'm surprised."

He glanced up at her, seeing her indignant expression. "I meant you don't seem like the cooking type."

"I am not the 'cooking type'. Though I can cook. I know fifteen different recipes for poison, though you shouldn't worry about your meal."

He glanced down at his bowl, swallowing hard. He shrugged and used his last bit of bread to sop any traces of soup that might be left.

"Either way, it's delicious. Fantastic. Best ever."

"Did you not have someone to cook your meals in Highever?"

"Sure I did. But Nan was never this good."

Morrigan smiled, proud that she was able to impress even a high-born with her cooking ability. She'd never thought much of such a mundane task, but it was good to know that she could count it as just one more of her many talents.

Lance looked up at her, and he shared her smile.

It was moments like these that agonized her the most. He was here, a man before her. She often daydreamed now, something that she had only saved for those rare occasions when she communed with the animals of the Wilds. She felt something in her belly, something swirling and tingling and she wondered if this was some unique emotion brought on by her extended contact with him.

It was true that he was the only man she'd ever really known, and he was certainly the only one to ever have refused her womanly charms. He was strange in that manner. He often flirted with her, and he often sought to be near her, and Morrigan suspected she knew why. Yet he hesitated to make a move, he backed away from her advances.

He insisted that he did not desire to spend the night with her, yet he was around her as often as he could manage.

"What do you desire from me?" she asked. He was leaning back on a tree stump, watching the stars. When she spoke he turned his head to listen to her, an action that startled her just a bit.

"How do you mean?"

"You refuse to have sex with me, though I have offered. I would enjoy such an… adventure with you. Why not? Is there any reason why we shouldn't?"

"I thought I said that I didn't want a one night stand with you," he said. "I want more."

"You desire to own me?"

"No. I desire for us to own each other."

"I have no such desire. You are a fool."

"You already own me," said Lance. "Whether you realize it or not."

"Do not say such a thing," she said. "You do not know what it means."

"It means that I'll be here," he said. "Always."

She looked away from him. She couldn't bear to see the look in his eye, the soulful expression that he regarded her with. She thought that he might care for her, deeper than he cared for himself. That was dangerous.

"Warden," she said. "I am not like other women."

"I know."

"You do not listen. I am not worth your distraction," she said. She looked into the fire, trying not to let her feelings slip through the surface. "And you are not worth mine."

He was unfazed. He turned on his side, all the better to face her.

"You are worth my distraction."

"You are impossible," said Morrigan. She looked at him earnestly. "Please, forget me. If you know what is good for you."

"I can't, Morrigan," said Lance. She looked at him, beautiful, wonderful gold eyes becoming teary for a moment.

"Why not?" she was breaking down now, he could tell. He hoped it was because she shared the feeling. Didn't she understand? Didn't she see that he was serious? Why was she fighting him? Why was she so adamant that they be apart?

He wanted her. She wanted him. Why wasn't that enough for her? Why wasn't he enough for her? She was so beautiful, right now. She was so vulnerable. It was something he'd never seen in the infallibly strong Morrigan. She was the strongest woman he'd ever known.

"Is it not obvious?" Lance asked. Morrigan shook her head.

"No. 'Tis not."

"And here I thought 'twas plain to see," said Lance, giving her a small smile. He reached out, finally. His fingertips grazed her cheek, just lightly touching her soft skin. He felt electricity sliding up his arm, energizing him into motion.

Her hand came up, grabbing his wrist. She guided his hand, moving his touch across her face to her lips. She kissed his hand, and it was warm. He liked the feeling.

She let his forefinger graze her lips, gave it entry, tongued it, sucked gently. Lance moved closer, other hand coming around her waist, pulling her gently. He took in her sweet scent, marveling once more at her seeming perfection.

She leaned against him, allowing him this one moment of control, the greatest gift she could ever give him.

He inclined his head, gently guiding her towards him. Her lips parted slightly, her breathing came in short gasps. She could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and felt her own pulse in her ears. She'd never been so nervous, had never felt such wanting.

_Please, Warden, kiss me._

"Wait," he said. She grit her teeth. He shifted a bit.

He said, "If this is our first kiss, then I want to say something first."

She looked up at him, expectant. A part of her feared what he would say, and another relished the thought.

"I love you, Morrigan."

She raised her fingers to his lips, trying desperately to get him to take those words back.

"Take it back," she said. He smiled.

"I can't. It's already out there."

"You should not have said that."

"Do you love me?"

She didn't say anything. She stared at him. He knew the answer, he was sure. There was no way she could say it. He knew it would be impossible for her, short of divine intervention.

And he was once more reminded of a time in his past, those precious minutes before his whole world had collapsed on itself. Those last seconds with Marna.

"Can you say it? Say that you love me?"

She didn't say anything. Lance nodded to her.

"It's okay," he said. "Morrigan. I love you. I'm in love with you."

He put his arm around her back, supporting her as he leaned in. Her hands slid up his chest, coming around the nape of his neck, holding him.

He kissed her at long last.

She was soft and warm. She welcomed him. Her full lips pressed against him. It could have lasted for a moment, an hour, or two hundred years; it was over all too soon for him.

She didn't say anything. She just looked up at him. He took in her beautiful form for another minute, suddenly so glad to have her here, to have met her.

Morrigan reached out, grasping his wrist and guiding his hand across her body, to her breast.

"Morrigan," he said. "I don't want a one-time thing with you. I want something real with you."

"I'm sorry, Warden," she told him. "This is all there is."

"It's not."

"You shouldn't have spoken," she said. "You cannot say such things to me. I… am not like any other woman you've known. We… you will be unhappy. You will regret this, in the end. I promise."

"I don't care. It doesn't matter to me. I'll die without you."

"Warden, don't."

She was insistent. Her own hand went to his belt, and he grabbed it, pushed her hand away from him.

"No," he said. "Not until I hear you say it."

"You will go wanting."

"As will you."

She nodded, resigned. Lance took a moment to look back at the camp. They'd gone unnoticed. Morrigan was shaking a bit. As was he, he realized.

"Will you stay?" she asked. "Just until I fall asleep?"

"Yes. If that is what you want."

"I would like that very much."

"Okay."

And he stayed, laying beside her on the bedroll, nestled together. In a way, it was more intimate than sex could ever have been. She was warm against his chest, and he was there for her the entire night. The fire died to a few glowing embers before he fell asleep.

He spent hours listening to her breathe, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

He thought of Marna again, and was surprised to find that the pain was dulled considerably, and he held Morrigan all the tighter.


	32. Brother Genitivi

The village of Haven was located at the southern end of the Frostback Mountain range, built into the side of a mountain well within the tree line. It must have been some sort of backwoods dump in the middle of nowhere for it not to have appeared on any of the major maps the group carried.

"How quaint," Morrigan said, just behind Lance on the slope leading up to the village entrance. "'Tis typical to find something of great importance in a place of no importance."

Lance just grunted. He didn't like the cold of the mountains. He didn't like trudging uphill to a village all the way out in the ass end of Ferelden. He didn't like leaving the Blight to grow in the south while he chased after some magical ashes to cure an Arl.

He didn't like that all this was necessary in the first place.

There was as single guard at the village entrance, and he looked incredibly displeased to see them.

"Who are you?"

"We're here to visit the village," Lance said. The guard looked them over, grunted.

"No. No one's expecting visitors and Haven isn't open to people from the lowlands."

"We need to get in," said Lance. He thought he should mentioned Brother Genitivi or the Urn, but decided against it. If these guys had something to do with the fake Weylon and Genitivi's disappearance, letting them know that they knew was not a good idea.

"No one is allowed in," said the guard. "Haven is a private place and we like to keep things the way they are."

It was obvious that he wasn't going to let them in. Lance felt a bit of frustration. They could take him down, no problem. But how many other people were in this village? How many armed guards? It wasn't a risk he felt like taking.

He gave an audible sigh and said, "Well we've come a long way. Can we at least trade for supplies to get us back?"

The guard thought for a moment. Lance crossed his hands behind his back, looking polite while secretly reaching for his dagger.

"I suppose that would be okay."

Lance relaxed.

"Thank you."

"The trade house is up the mountain. You can trade for supplies there, but do not go anywhere else."

"Okay, that's fair."

"I'm serious. Revered Father Eirik is giving services in the Chantry. He must not be disturbed."

Leliana took on a look of suspicion. "Revered _father_?"

"Yes. It has always been thus in Haven."

"Well, we'll just be on our way then," said Lance. They entered the village, keeping watchful of their surroundings. Lance could feel the arrows trained on them.

As soon as he was sure that they were well away from the guard he said, "I'll bet real money that the Chantry is where we want to be."

"Oh, Warden, if you only knew the irony of such a statement," said Morrigan. She had a smile on her face that told him she was agreeing with him. He looked on ahead, unable to rid himself of the same goofy grin.

The Chantry was further up the mountain. They tried to remain out of sight of anyone that might be offended by their presence. They could hear chanting from the building even before they topped the plateau it was built on. The highest point in the village, and just as cold.

"Hear that?" asked Leliana. "It's no prayer I've ever heard."

"A small village with a dark secret," Morrigan said. "'Tis very… droll."

Lance grunted again. It certainly was more usual than the other crap they'd had to wade through. An infested Circle tower, a village besieged by undead. By all means this creepy little village was a relief.

Lance didn't bother knocking on the Chantry doors. He pushed them open with his left hand, orienting himself to be ready to strike should they be met by some unfathomable monster. Instead they were greeted with the bewildered looks of the village people.

Revered Father Eirik wasn't distracted.

"And so we cast our souls to Holy Andraste and bask in the warmth of Her shadow. Together we shall be as one."

"Revered Father," a woman whispered, as though Lance couldn't hear her. "Outsiders."

The Revered Father looked up, apparently not at all stunned by the development, despite the fact that everyone else seemed shocked to the core. They were a haggard people, and that scared Lance. All of them wore rags and had stringy hair. They had dark eyes and pale faces. It was scary.

"I suppose that's enough for today," said the Revered Father. Someone in the crowd looked ready to voice a protest. He stopped her. "There will be time for the Sacraments later. I must attend to our visitors."

Lance stepped forward, boldly standing before the Revered Father and ignoring his bodyguards. The people filed out of the Chantry, all looking nervously over their shoulders at the outsiders.

"I'm here for Brother Genitivi," Lance said. "I know he's here. I know you people are sodding nuts. I'm not leaving until I have him."

The Revered Father sighed. He closed the book he'd read the prayer from, a leather bound thing Lance couldn't recognize, and stepped towards him.

"You know," he said. "This is why we do not allow outsiders. They bring their ways, deny us ours. They bring war to Haven and soon we are no more."

He looked at his bodyguards, and Lance knew what was next.

He didn't bother waiting for them to attack. He drew his sword and blade in one motion. The guards cried out when metal connected with metal, with flesh. Blood spattered on the floor. Morrigan called out a warning, catching Lance's attention just in time to see the Revered Father sending a magical bolt into his sternum.

Lance went backwards, hit something hard. Alistair was on the Revered Father, shrugging off a second attack. His Templar training at its finest.

Alistair sent his Warden's Longsword into the Revered Father's face, crushing bone and mangling his features. The man gurgled blood, unable to say anything coherent. Alistair raised his sword and brought it down again.

"Are you okay?" he asked Lance. Lance could only nod. His armor had managed to hold up to the magic, though it was now cracked and singed. He'd got the wind knocked out of him.

"He will be fine," said Morrigan. "He is a man of astounding good fortune."

"Glad to hear you think so," said Lance. He rose to his feet, feeling a bit shaky. He worried that the blow had opened up an old wound, had damaged newly healed ribs. He didn't have any more time to waste getting better. He wished he'd brought Wynne with them.

Alistair kicked the Revered Father's corpse.

"What do you think is wrong with them?" he asked. Lance shrugged.

"Got a case of religion?"

Morrigan smiled at the thought, while Leliana gave a disapproving glare. Lance shrugged at them, giving his best tough-guy grin. He looked through the Revered Father's robes, trying to ignore the musky, sour smell of brain matter on the floor.

The guy had some sort of medallion. It had a strange Tivinter symbol on it and its surface altered shape at his touch. It was some novelty, that was for sure.

Alistair was examining their surroundings. The Chantry, if that's what it could be called, was a mess. It looked old, stone floor cracked and worn. Books and other detritus littered the corners. Lance had the aching suspicion that it wasn't built by the villagers.

"Hey," said Alistair, tapping on a section of wall. "I think this is a secret door or something."

"Open it."

"Well I don't know how."

"Stand aside, simpleton," said Morrigan. She put her palms against the section of wall, tapping it. It sounded hollow. The stones were definitely newer than the surrounding architecture. It had been added at some point.

"Do you know how to open it?" Lance asked. Morrigan nodded.

"Watch and learn," she said. She raised her staff, and Lance wondered what magical trick she would pull out of her metaphorical bag.

She hit the stone with her staff, making a loud cracking sound.

The stone section slid aside, revealing an entire room hidden from the Chantry.

"You're kidding me, right?" Lance asked. Morrigan could only smile smugly. Lance stepped forth, playing the fearless leader. He stuck his head in the new room.

It appeared to be some sort of library. Shelves were stacked along the far side, filled with books. Books were piled on the floor, on the shelves. It would have been impressive.

"Help," someone moaned. Lance looked around, and saw a man lying prone on the floor. "Help."

He rushed to the man's aid.

"They had me in here for weeks," said the man. "I thought I was done for."

"Are you Brother Genitivi?" Lance asked. He nodded.

"How did you know?"

"We're after the Urn."

"Ah."

Lance looked at Genitivi's leg. The bone jutted out at an angle, and his foot hung limp. It was sickening to see.

"Morrigan, can you do something about this?"

He wished again that he'd brought Wynne. She knelt beside Genitivi, drawing bandages and splints from her pack.

"The leg will heal in time," she said. "But the foot may have to come off."

"I thought as much," said Genitivi. "Oh, well. Better I should lose the foot than the man, eh?"

Lance nodded, a little dumbfounded that he could be so optimistic about it. Lance would have been in shambles. Morrigan fixed the leg as well as she could, and looked up at Lance, expectant. He didn't want to say anything aloud, not here. He reached over, touching her hand lightly. She returned the gesture.

"My captors," said Genitivi. "I think they know where the Urn is. I heard them speak of a temple at the mountain's peak."

"A temple?"

"Yes. They worship something there," he said. "Something they call Andraste. At first I thought it was the Urn, but now I think they despise the Urn itself."

"Sounds… creepy," said Leliana. She was eager now. They had direct confirmation that the Urn of Andraste's Sacred Ashes was real, that they were in walking distance of it. Lance, too, felt a flicker of excitement. He wasn't at all religious, but the knowledge of being near something so powerful…

"You must help me up," said Genitivi. "I have to see the Urn."

"You're too badly mangled," said Lance. "We need to get you to Denerim."

"No. I've come this far, I'm not giving up."

"If you insist," said Lance. "We have to find the Urn quick. Arl Eamon's life is dependent on it."

"I see. Eirik had a medallion, something we need to unlock the temple."

"This?" Lance asked, holding up the medallion. Genitivi nodded.

"Yes, that's it," he said. Lance helped him to his feet, allowing the man to lean heavily on him. He groaned in pain, unable to put weight on his foot.

"We have to get to the mountain's peak," said Genitivi. "We're so close."

Lance let him lean on him, and struggled to think of a way they could get him to the mountain's peak without being seen.


	33. Kolgrim

The temple was on the peak of the mountain. On the peak. At the bloody top of the gigantic ass mountain.

Lance had decided then that he was not fond of heights, of mountains, or of steep angles. Morrigan was right behind him, hood drawn up over her head to protect from the wind and cold. Lance had a hard time seeing through the snow. He wished he'd thought to pack warmer gear.

"Lovely," she called above the screeching wind. "We can freeze to death while searching for the bones of a mad woman!"

Lance didn't reply, for fear of gaining only a mouthful of snow. He'd never been on a mountain before. He didn't like it.

The snow made it too difficult to see. If the temple was a few feet ahead, or a few miles ahead, he couldn't tell. They seemed to be walking on some path, though. Snow had filled it in, but it was definitely a worn segment of the mountain. Lance occasionally stumbled on what he thought might have been steps.

Genitivi wasn't making things any easier, being largely unable to make the journey under his own power. It was hell dragging him up that slope.

But they managed it.

"Here," said Genitivi when they had reached the entrance. They were shielded from the wind and snow here, and it was far more pleasant. Genitivi took the medallion.

"What does that do?"

"It's an old key," said Genitivi. "Few enough of these are left in the world and someone not familiar with them would have no idea how to work it. But you just manipulate it like this and…"

The medallion had become a key. Lance was quite impressed. Genitivi unlocked the door to the temple for them, ignoring the pulsating pain in his foot.

With a held breath, Genitivi pushed open the door, a flood of shining white light blocking their vision. Lance at first thought it was some sort of holy, divine illumination. He allowed himself seconds of awe, of worrying that his agnosticism had damned him to eternity of torment.

Then his vision cleared and he realized that it was just sunlight reflecting off of the piles of snow gathered in the temple over the centuries. It was quite a letdown.

But somehow the temple's grandeur overpowered the sense of awe, delivered a new sense of cowering terror. Lance took a step back.

The temple had seen better days. Shattered windows and falling ceiling panels had allowed snow from the mountain top to pile in the corners and on the floor. Great columns with archaic, faded writing rose from floor to ceiling.

"Amazing," said Genitivi. "Maker's breath!"

"We can't afford to linger," said Lance, fighting his own desire to sit and stare at its magnificence. Genitivi looked at him dumbly.

"What? Oh. I… Leave me here. I'll only slow you down."

"Right, okay. Is there anything about this temple we should know?"

"The stories and legends speak of this temple being guarded by the divinity of the Maker Himself. They say that all who enter this temple and are judged unworthy will be slain before they can take ten steps. Of course, that's all just fancy talk for 'riddled with traps'."

"I see," said Lance. He looked back at his companions. "Let's go."

The temple was old, but there were obvious signs that they weren't alone there. The snow was mostly cleared from the great hall's center, to form a very deliberate path. A fire made from gathered rubble kept the room from being too cold to enter. Lance stood near it, allowing the heat to warm his bones from the long trek up to the temple. He wouldn't appreciate having to go back down the damn mountain.

"We are not alone," he said. Morrigan rolled her eyes.

"'Tis obvious."

Lance drew his blades. "Just stay frosty. So to speak."

Morrigan let out a small laugh, and he found himself grinning at her. Alistair and Leliana exchanged looks.

Lance gestured with his head for them to head on. He was feeling far less ambivalent towards Morrigan and was glad for it. She had yet to share her feelings with him, but he knew they were there. He'd just have to work at chipping away all the built up Flemeth. In time, they would be quite a couple, he knew.

Of course, that just made it all the more difficult to concentrate on the task at hand. He couldn't help but think about kissing Morrigan in the dark, about her hands on his chest, about the soft noise of her breathing at night. He had butterflies in his stomach.

It would be trouble the instant they faced combat, he knew. It would distract him. He would be rendered vulnerable. But somehow, he thought that was a worthy price to pay. He liked the feeling too much to let it go.

The temple was indeed occupied. A number of villagers, fully armored and frothing, waited for them, allowing the group to be drawn in for an ambush.

Lance called out as they charged, bringing up his own sword to fight. These villagers were much better prepared than the ones in the village itself. A muscular brute wielding a greatsword charged him, ready to chop him to pieces.

There was a brief moment where Lance thought he was done for, that there was simply no way to avoid being smashed to ragged chunks. But then the warrior training took over.

Get low, charge into his arc of attack. Blades forward and up, twist. Remove, pivot, slash.

The armored villager went down. He wasn't too sure what happened next, having completely lost focus of everything beyond his target. He felt heat on the back of his neck and smelled burning flesh that wasn't his own. An arrow whistled past his ear.

When he looked up from the gory mess that was his attacker, the villagers, ten total, were dead. Alistair was beside him.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he said. "Just a little… stunned."

"There is something very unusual about these attackers," said Morrigan. "They are no common villagers."

"Yeah, I got that… vibe, too."

"Mother often spoke of lost arts and arcane practices from the days of her youth. I think these villagers are Reavers."

"What now?"

"Reavers. 'Tis a special sort of warrior, one that thrives on death and pain. They are soul eating monsters, not to be trifled with. Mother was quite under the impression that such knowledge could only be obtained from very ancient – and powerful – dragons."

"Dragons?" Lance asked. Soddin' figures. The temple of Andraste's Ashes filled with soul-eating death knights and dragons. He laughed. "Well, Reavers and dragons and ashes, oh my!"

Lance longed for the days when his life had been simpler, when all he'd needed to know was how to watch over a Teyrn and how to swing a sword at a dummy.

He glanced back at Morrigan.

Scratch that. There was nowhere else he'd rather be.

"Let us go," said Leliana, seeing the way Lance looked at Morrigan and smiling. "The sooner we are done here, the sooner we can get back to camp."

Lance nodded, thinking about all that they could do at camp. He led them further into the temple, growing more apprehensive about the entire experience with every step.

A good number of Reavers had populated the temple, and Lance couldn't help but wonder what they were up to. It looked like a large portion of the village was here, all donned in armor and toting weapons to oppose the two Wardens and their comrades.

Lance was too happy to send them to whatever strange god they worshipped. The temple gave way to some icy caverns within the mountain. It was in such disrepair Lance suspected that much of the temple was simply lost to ruin.

Snow crunched underfoot. Lance tried hard to keep his balance. Slipping in front of Morrigan would have been most embarrassing.

"Do you hear that?" asked Alistair, stopping to look around the cold cavern. Lance shrugged.

"Hear what?"

Then he did hear it. A soft noise, a clicking. Faster, closer. Claws on ice.

Lance looked behind them, feeling his heart catch in his throat.

"Dragons!"

Dragonlings to be precise. Baby dragons. They were far less imposing than their adult selves but no less deadly. It only took one bite from their vile, toxic mouths to die of rot. It only took one second in their noxious, burning breath to be reduced to ash.

Lance moved into action, Alistair behind him.

"We're surrounded," Leliana called. Lance risked a glance back, seeing a clutch of the dragonlings approaching from the other direction. Had it been an ambush? Did these creatures have the ability to think tactically? Either way they were boned.

Leliana readied an arrow, aiming at the nearest dragonling and whispering a prayer. Morrigan stepped before her, pushing her aside.

"Allow me," she said, taking on that look of wicked competence that got Lance's blood moving. She raised her staff, pointing it at the approaching dragonlings. Lightning arced, dancing from one dragonling to the next. Lance would have liked to have watched, to have seen what she did to utterly destroy the dragonlings.

But he had his own baby dragons to worry about. He and Alistair went forward, swords at the ready.

"Stick to their sides," said Alistair.

"Split up."

They went in two directions, distracting the dragonlings and giving themselves an opening. Lance struck the nearest dragonling with his sword, slicing its side open. It had been a deeper cut than he'd expected or the dragonling's skin was far thinner he though; its guts spilled out of the wound onto the floor.

He hacked the next closest one, cleaving its head. His worries about an ambush were immediately alleviated. These were no fearsome beasts of legend. They were children, too easily put to the sword.

"That was a rush," said Morrigan, standing over her charred kills triumphantly. "I daresay that I out performed myself this time."

Lance laughed at that.

"I don't think I've seen your _performance_."

"Well, Grey Warden, isn't that something we will have to rectify."

"Oh, please," said Alistair. "Can't this wait until I'm _not_ present?"

Lance grinned wider, and Morrigan returned it. He wanted to take her then and there, but he knew better of it. They had too much work to do. Maybe later he could indulge himself. But for now, he had to focus on the mission. At the expense of all else.

He led them deeper into the cave. Streams of light from outside reflected off of the snow and ice, illuminating the cavern so that they could see clearly what lay ahead of them. Lance knew that in another time this would have been simply amazing. For now, it was terrifying.

The caverns eventually gave way to the remaining temple, snow and debris having been cleared from this place long ago. A group of armed men stood, prepared to face off with Lance and company. He drew his sword, knowing that this would probably lead to the same sort of diplomacy the Reavers of this place had shown.

"You there," shouted the group's leader. He was a bearded man with wild eyes. Lance didn't like this. "You are the one that has defiled this sacred place, killed our people and our children!"

"Children?"

"Holy Andraste's children! The very creatures spawned from her great form!"

Lance was puzzled by this. Andraste? Children? Did she even have kids? They would certainly be long in the dirt by now. Leliana leaned close to him, to whisper.

"I think he means the dragonlings," she said. Lance cocked an eyebrow. That made sense. These creepy people, and the ones in the Chantry, worshipped the dragon that had birthed those dragonlings. That would explain where they learned their Reaver powers. They must have perverted their worship of Andraste into the worship of the dragon. They thought the dragon was Andraste, the crazy bastards.

"Look," said Lance. "I'm here for the Urn of Sacred Ashes. I didn't want to fight your people, but they sort of left me no choice."

"You search for the ashes?"

"Yes, do you have them?"

"Why would we bother ourselves with the dust of a mortal woman when we have Andraste Herself, in all her splendor?"

"I suppose you wouldn't. Does that mean I can have them?"

"Perhaps. If we could come to a deal."

Morrigan leaned in this time, whispering in her seductive voice. "It may be wise to at least listen to his offer."

"Shoot," said Lance, regretting his choice of words.

"We must allow Holy Andraste's light to shine in all corners of the world!" said the man. He was yelling. Lance didn't like having to listen to his yelling. "We must wean this world of its hunger for the mortal woman! We must allow Holy Andraste to spread her wings and-"

Lance turned to his companions. "This is guy is nuts. Whack 'em."

He didn't wait for the cult leader's next move. Lance punched him in the nose, distracting him, hopefully, so that a blade could be put through his ribs. To his credit, the leader was pretty strong. He took the punch, and managed a shout.

"To arms, Brethren! Andraste will grant us victory!"

Lance swept out his sword, digging the blade into the guy's side. His party was already spreading, engaging the other cultists. Morrigan had sucked the life out of three already. Lance figured he could handle one man, no matter how tough he was.

Except this guy was a little too tough.

He punched back, shrugging off his wound and sending Lance reeling. His chest still hurt from the point blank love tap he'd gotten from Eirik, and this just exacerbated the situation. The guy was able to pick Lance up off his feet, sword doing little to deter him, and throw him almost all the way across the room.

He landed hard, feeling pain shoot through his chest. It hurt like hell. His sword landed just out of reach and the leader was on him again before he could grab it.

The crazy cultist leader wielded a massive axe, one of truly ridiculous proportions. Lance had no problem believing that it would eviscerate him given the chance.

So he rolled, praying that he could figure out a new plan of attack before he was put to the chopping block. The axe impacted just to his left, shattering the stone floor where his gut had been. He kicked, aiming for the guy's knee. It gave way, twisting at an unusual angle.

He called out, but it wasn't in pain. If anything, he looked _more_ determined than before. He walked on the busted knee, gritting his teeth in an evil grin.

"Andraste protects me! Andraste keeps me strong! Andraste is God!"

He lifted the axe, muscles straining to raise such a weapon. Lance was stuck. There was no to go. Glancing left and right, he was dead.

"Andraste, take this child! Welcome into your glorious light! Let him be as-"

He gagged, blood spilling out of his mouth. Lance looked up, past his ear. Alistair stood behind him, gritting his teeth with the effort of pushing his sword through the crazed man's armor. The blade poked through to the other side, just below the man's sternum.

Lance grunted with effort, pushing himself far to the side to clear the axe as it fell to the ground. The cult leader was dead by the time Alistair removed his sword and let the body drop.

"That was in the nick of time, don't you think?" he asked, looking rather proud of himself. He had a red mark on his cheek, likely from a smack to the face. Morrigan and Leliana were just behind him, both concerned but otherwise fine.

"Cuttin' closer every day."

Lance hissed through his teeth as he stood, his entire body aching from being bounced off of the scenery. He grabbed his sword, checked it for damage. Its luster had certainly faded, given weeks of use, and it was pretty beat up, but all-in-all it was still a trustworthy blade.

"Let's go see this Andraste," Lance said. "Before I give up."

"You sure you're okay to move?"

"I think I'll need a good rest when we get back."

Morrigan gave him that wicked smile of hers, looking all the more beautiful for it.

"I would not count on getting _any_ rest tonight, Warden. Were I you."

"Hm."


	34. The Gauntlet

"So that's Andraste?" Lance asked no one in particular. He was huddled under a fallen arch, at the mountain's peak.

Andraste was a great dragon. A High Dragon, soaring over the temple. It let out a low growl, one that reverberated throughout the mountains. Its wings spread wide, nearly blocking out the sun as it passed overhead. Blue-gray flesh that looked like armor, maw of razor teeth, massive claws, and a spindly, whipping tail. If it saw them, it didn't make any indication. Instead, it settled on a nearby outcropping of rocks, curling up to sleep.

Lance had read that High Dragons slept for a hundred years at a time, that it was nigh impossible to wake them. He didn't want to test that theory.

"They say song soothes the beast," said Leliana. "I'm not about to try."

Lance nodded.

It was terrifying to be this close to a High Dragon. And it was thrilling. All his life dragons only existed in stories, in tales from the days of old. Now he was looking right at one. While he searched for the holy ashes of the Maker's Bride. He wondered if someday they would tell stories of him.

Regardless, he didn't have time for flights of fancy. He had a job to do.

The temple was in such a decayed state that the stone bridge spanning the mountain top to the rest of the temple had collapsed. What little remained only served as a ramp to the rock and ice below.

They treaded carefully, even Morrigan. If that dragon were to wake, they wouldn't last ten seconds. Luckily the dragon was deep in slumber, not stirring an inch. These crazy villagers were dragon cultists.

Dragon cults were rare these days, dragons all being dead or in hiding. During the age of the First Blight, when it had seemed the Old Gods of the Tivinter Imperium had betrayed their worshippers, many flocked to the worship of other dragons. They all failed.

"If only I had the chance to study this creature," said Morrigan, tapping her lip in thought when they were in the remaining temple section. "Oh, think of the fun I could have!"

"Yeah," said Lance. "Morrigan with the ability to spit fire and ravage farmland."

"Perhaps I would ravage something – _someone_ – else," she said. She and Lance shared a grin. They didn't care about the others knowing any more. Lance never did. Morrigan perhaps enjoyed rubbing it in their faces that Lance had fallen for her.

"Oh, _please_," Alistair said. "Let us be done with this."

This section of temple was in considerably better shape than the rest. Though it was still old and the stone was cracked beyond repair. It was mostly intact and devoid of the piles of snow and debris.

"What is this place?" Alistair asked. "It's different from the rest of the temple."

Lance peered ahead. There were torches lit, providing dim light to see by. There was someone stand just ahead of them. He was large, armored and carried an axe. Lance wondered if he was another Reaver come to die at their hands.

But he didn't look like one. He was clean, and looked comparatively sane.

Lance approached, hands raised to show that he meant no harm.

"Hello?"

"Hello," said the man. His voice had an otherworldly tenor to it, like he was speaking from across a great distance. He seemed calm, too calm. Very serene as though he was completely undisturbed by the fact that he was guarding a door in a decaying temple on the top of a mountain.

"We have come for the Urn of Sacred Ashes," Lance chanced. He figured that if this guy had yet to eviscerate them then he couldn't be a bad guy. He hoped he wasn't a bad guy.

"Then you must go through the Gauntlet," he said. He was eerily tranquil. Morrigan tapped his hand, almost imperceptibly. He guessed at what she was warning him, as he was already suspecting it. The man was no man; he was a spirit.

"What is the gauntlet?"

"It is a test of your worthiness. If you pass it, then you shall be allowed to take a small pinch of ashes."

"Right. What sort of test?"

"It is not for me to say. Each person experiences the Gauntlet differently. I cannot predict what you will see."

"Okay," said Lance. "We'd like permission to try the Gauntlet."

The spirit nodded. He seemed please. Lance wondered what he would have done had they not wanted to be tested. He didn't want to know, he decided.

"I would first ask you a question," he said. Lance nodded, a little put off by the prospect. "You left your parents to the mercy of Rendon Howe, knowing they would have surely perished at his hands. Do you feel as though you've failed your parents?"

Lance felt icy numbness grab at his heart. How did this demon know? Why would it ask him this? He felt himself grow pale, blood drain from his face.

_Make your mark on this world. We will always love you._

"I…" he tried to stay strong, to not show any damn emotion, to not give this creature anything. He couldn't manage. He felt tears, the very ones he promised to never shed again, and his voice broke. "Yes. I should have stayed. I should have defended them to the death. I shouldn't be alive."

He felt something on his hand, a warm, gentle sensation even through his gloves. It was Morrigan, her hand on his own, fingers intertwining. She was holding his hand, comforting him. He didn't dare look her in the eye for fear that she would find him unworthy.

The spirit nodded, satisfied. He looked at Alistair.

"You, Alistair, you often wonder if things would be better had you died. You think it should have been you instead of Duncan to have perished."

Alistair's eyes opened wide, seemingly unable to comprehend what he'd just heard. Lance imagined he'd looked the same. Alistair worked his mouth, unable to speak.

Then, "Yes, I wish I had died instead of Duncan. I should have been there. He should still be alive and everything would be better."

The spirit nodded to him, still satisfied. Alistair looked quite cowed, and he was far less jovial than Lance had ever seen him. Morrigan squeezed his hand tighter as the spirit turned to Leliana.

"You, Leliana," he said. "The Maker only spoke to Andraste. You were afraid of living a dull life in the Chantry and fabricated your 'vision' to bring you attention."

"No!" she said, suddenly red-faced and wide-eyed. "I have been spoken to by the Maker, he has given me a vision, it is true!"

"Do you consider yourself to be the equal of Andraste?"

"No, I never… I am just a woman, and the Maker wanted me to follow the Warden. It is true!"

The spirit nodded again, and he turned to Morrigan. She tensed, and Lance squeezed her hand, trying to communicate to her that there was nothing she could say that would make him stop loving her.

"And you, Morrigan, Flemeth's daughter, what-"

"No. I refuse to play your game, spirit."

"I will respect your wishes."

The spirit stepped aside, allowing the door he guarded to open. "You may pass."

Lance entered; still holding Morrigan's hand and feeling his legs go wobbly under him. He wanted to sit down, to lie down, to just go to sleep for a thousand years. He didn't want to do this anymore.

They were in a large chamber now, and it was dark. Lance struggled to see. There were people here, he realized. But they weren't people. They looked at him, expectantly. He could see through them. They were spirits of some sort.

He took a tentative step forward.

"Hello?"

"The smallest lark may carry it while the strongest man may not. Of what do I speak?" asked the spirit to his immediate right. It was a woman, or had been. Lance didn't know what she was talking about.

"What?"

"The smallest lark may carry it while the strongest man may not. Of what do I speak?"

It was a riddle. Lance hated riddles. He could never think of the answer when it counted. Leliana stepped forward.

"Oh, I know this! It's a tune!"

The spirit nodded. "I was a childhood friend of Andraste, and one of her greatest admirers."

She vanished, a stream of light arcing from where she had stood to the great stone door at the far end of the chamber. A woman stepped forward.

This Gauntlet was to test the faithful. The spirits asked questions about Andraste and about the temple itself. They were all phrased in riddles, to stump the travelers and prevent their progress. Thankfully, Leliana was an expert on Andraste and was able to answer each question without pause.

The great stone door opened and they were granted access to the next stage of the Gauntlet. Lance wondered if it was personalized, if it was something that everyone saw differently or if there was a set pattern to it.

And then he saw his next test.

"Hello, my son," said the spirit. He turned to face Lance, and Lance couldn't speak. It was his father, or a ghost that looked very much like him, smiling as pleasantly as he had each day at supper. Lance's jaw tensed.

"Why are you tormenting me like this?"

"You torment yourself," said Bryce. "You allow yourself to feel responsible for things you could not have controlled. It is time you let your grief pass away. I am dead and there is nothing that can change that."

"Father…"

"Son, take this," he said, extending his hand, a silver chain hanging from between his fingers. Lance reached out, allowed the spirit to drop it into his hand. "Let yourself be free of your grief."

He vanished, like sand in the wind. Lance was left staring after him for a long moment, not that any of his companions would disturb him from his sorrow. Quietly, with a grim determination, he held the chain up, examining the mirrored amulet. There was something in the reflection.

It was a long moment before he realized that he wasn't seeing himself in the reflection, but he smiled at who he did see. He slipped the chain around his neck, hooking it.

There was a hand at his shoulder. Morrigan.

"Warden, I…"

"Hush," he said. And he gave her a sad smile. "I'm alright. Let's get this done."

He led the way, trying to keep the aura of the competent commander about him. He hoped they took to it.

The next room presented a new challenge. There were plenty of tales about similar experiences, about a person needing to defeat their inner fears before being able to tackle their external conflicts. He assumed this would be something like that.

A spectral form of himself rushed him. Lance parried the blow, sweeping his sword in a wide arc to buy him distance. His whole party was there, in both real and spectral forms. They did battle. The spirit version of himself was a disturbingly poor fighter. He hoped it wasn't an accurate copy of himself.

He slashed with his dagger, catching his spirit self on the cheek. It would have left a scar. He kicked; knocking his fake self's feet out from under him. A sword angled downwards and the spirit was no more.

The rest of his group made quick work of themselves. Morrigan had seemed to relish the opportunity to test her powers against herself. She seemed a bit disappointed.

"You okay?" Lance asked, trying to stay strong. She nodded.

"I had hoped that I would provide more of a fight. 'Tis most saddening."

"I'm sorry," said Lance. "We can start over if you'd like."

"No," she said, looking at him seriously for a moment. "No, Warden, that would not be wise."

He nodded. Right. He didn't need to go through it again either. Instead he picked up his sword, putting it back in its sheath and headed for the next test.

"Oh, is this some sort of puzzle?" asked Alistair. "I'm terrible at puzzles."

Indeed it was puzzling. The door led to a circular chamber, with a number of metallic plates surrounding a massive pit in the middle. Lance couldn't see to the bottom, but he was sure that was for the best. There was no way to the other side, where the exit door stood, mocking.

"So…" Lance muttered. There was no clear way to solve this. No one to fight. He stepped forward, examining the room. He tapped one of the metal plates experimentally, and there was a quick whoosh of air, causing him to recoil.

"Did you see that?" asked Leliana. "It made a bridge!"

Lance looked over the pit. There was nothing there.

"I think you're mistaken."

"No, she is not, Warden," said Morrigan, eyes wide but otherwise calm. "There was a bridge."

Lance cocked his head to one side, not quite sure if he believed it. He put his foot on the plate once more.

The air cracked and whooshed around them, and a spectral bridge piece hung in the center of the pit. He removed his foot and it vanished. He touched the plate again and it hung there.

"It's not complete," said Lance. "This is strange."

He examined the room. The metal plates fanned out on either side of the bridge, divided equally on either side.

"If I had money to bet, I'd say that we're expected to hit the plate opposite this one. Morrigan, stand here, please."

She did so, if only because he'd said please. She let a knuckle tap against his leg as she passed him, smiling at him, coquettishly. He nodded to her, trying not to make too much of a scene. She was the biggest flirt he'd ever had the privilege of knowing.

He wanted her. He might relent this evening, he thought, settle for knowing that she cared, let her off the hook. Lay with her just tonight, maybe convince her that they could be more.

For now, though, he would settle for getting his hands on the Sacred Ashes.

They worked the puzzle, realizing that the key to building the bridge was to stand on corresponding plates and cause the spectral bridge to solidify. It took some trying, and a bit of failure, but they eventually got the bridge fully assembled. Though no one was very eager to take the first step.

"'Tis your mission, Wardens," said Morrigan. "Perhaps Alistair should be the first to go?"

"Hey," he said. "If I die then our odds of stopping the Blight are cut in half."

"Well don't look at me," said Leliana. "Make Morrigan do it. She can turn into a bird or something if she falls."

"I have no desire to fall."

"Why do I have to do it?" asked Alistair. "Why can't _he_ do it?"

"The Warden… is far too important to risk. Better we risk _you_."

"Hey, guys," said Lance.

"Oh, sure, _he's_ too important to risk because _you_ want to jump his bones."

"I think it's a sweet thing," Leliana said. "And I don't think we should risk him either."

"Of course you two would say that; you're like a couple of horny teenagers!"

Lance shouted to be heard, though it didn't work.

"What the Warden and I do together is our business and not yours, fool."

"Sure. And when you've drained him of blood, what then?"

"Don't say that."

"I assure you, Alistair, 'tis not blood I seek to drain him of."

"That is just disgusting!"

Lance sighed, defeated. It seemed as though his group was more concerned with arguing amongst themselves than the fact that he'd already crossed the bridge. He waited another moment, allowing them to work up a froth.

When it had died down some, he said, "Hey, let's go. Don't have time to waste."

They stared at him with some mixture of shock and awe. He reveled in it, if only for a moment. Alistair shrugged finally and took a step forward.

"Andraste only favored the clever, it would seem," he said. The others followed, each placing a foot on the bridge tentatively. Morrigan did her best to appear confident and unflappable. He liked her better that way.

Lance let out a slow breath as he pushed open the door to the next room, hoping against hope that this would be the last trial.

"Oh, Maker," Leliana whispered. "It's real!"

Lance nodded. The Urn sat atop a pedestal, only a dozen yards ahead. It was so well within reach that Lance thought he could just cross the room and grab it, no worries. But it would never be that easy.

Between them and the Urn was a wall of fire. Heat buffeted him, turning his face red. He looked at a plaque placed ominously before them.

"'Cast off the trappings of worldly life and cloak yourself in the goodness of spirit. King and slave, lord and beggar; be born anew in the Maker's sight.'"

"Cryptic and ridiculous," said Morrigan. "As always."

Lance glanced back at his group.

"I think we need to disrobe," said Lance. They all looked at each other nervously. Lance wasn't too thrilled about forcing his companions to strip down, but the aching suspicion was that he needed to in order pass through the flames.

Leliana sighed and reached for the straps of her leather armor, resigned. Lance held up a hand.

"Whoa," he said. "You don't have to do that. I'll go ahead."

She raised her voice to protest, but squelched it. As much as she wanted to see the Urn of Sacred Ashes, she didn't want to strip down in front of everyone else. Nor did Lance, but he figured that there was little choice.

"Well, Warden," said Morrigan, putting her hand under her chin in a most interested fashion. "I do desire a show."

"Oh, but of course," said Lance, suddenly feeling nauseous. This wasn't something at all he wanted to do, especially not in front of Morrigan. But perhaps this would be fun for the both of them.

He took a breath, tried not to think about his companions.

"Here goes."

He nervously reached for the straps on his cracked armor, muscles aching suddenly. He fumbled for the leather buckles, stupid fingers unable to do it right.

And then he felt someone else helping him, unsnapping the buckles and pulling the leather loops free.

_Oh, please don't be Alistair._

He glanced over his shoulder, saw Morrigan there, face deadly serious. She helped him remove the breastplate, set it aside for him to collect later.

"There you go," she whispered. He nodded to her, and was glad for her presence. He was able to remove his leggings on his own volition. He was left in the thin fabric of his tunic and trousers. Shakily, he unbuckled his belt, pulling it free of his waist and letting it drop on the ground.

He chanced one last glance over his shoulder, at Morrigan and Leliana who were both rapt at attention, and Alistair who was rolling his eyes. Lance unfastened his tunic and pulled it over his head, feeling goose bumps despite the heat of the roaring flames ahead. He let it fall atop his armor.

With one last breath, he hooked his thumbs into his trousers and pulled them down, stepping out of them. There was a squeak behind him, and Lance suspected Leliana.

Left in nothing but his smallclothes, and with two beautiful women watching his every move, Lance held his breath, approaching the fire and the heat billowing off of him. He held out his hand, waiting for searing pain of the fire. When it didn't come he assumed that he had done right. Cautiously, he stepped into the flames.

He was unhurt when he emerged.

"Congratulations," said the Guardian, suddenly behind him. "You passed the trials of the Gauntlet. You may approach the Urn and take with you a pinch of Andraste's ashes."

He vanished as suddenly as he appeared. The flames died away, allowing his party access. Morrigan held out his gear, looking rather reluctant to offer him his clothing back. He took them, giving her a small smile and not minding a bit when she helped him dress.

"Andraste's Ashes," Leliana whispered. "I can't believe it."

"I stand in awe," said Morrigan. "Really."

Lance cleared his throat. He wasn't terribly religious, but this was so momentous an occasion. It was… amazing.

He pulled open a small leather pouch from his belt. Carefully, holding his breath to keep from ruining the holy ashes, he reached in, pinched the ashes and quickly released them into the pouch.

"Sweet, Maker," said Lance, swallowing. He made sure to get as many of the ashes into the pouch as possible before tying it closed.

"This… this is…"

Alistair nodded. "Thrilling. Astounding. I have to pee, let's go."

Lance laughed, glad for Alistair's realism in such an overwhelming occasion. He took another breath and stepped down from the Urn. There were two doors available, to take them back out.

They exited at the top of the mountain, in front of the remaining temple portion. They looked back over the mountain, to where the ruined temple and its myriad Reavers and dragonlings waited. Lance sighed.

The air had stopped, and there wasn't any snow falling. It was peaceful, serene. Lance took another breath, relishing the cool, fresh mountain air.

"Well," said Lance, tapping the pouch. "That was an experience."

He led the way back to the shattered temple, where they would find Genitivi and where they would begin the long walk back to somewhere that mattered. Morrigan walked close to him, wishing to talk.

"Warden," she said. "Are you now satisfied?"

"With what?"

"I mean to ask if you have come to terms with your parents. You expressed your desire to have died with them. That is not how you feel now, surely."

"No. I don't suppose it is. And don't call me 'Shirley'."

The joke was lost on her.

"I am glad," she said. "You are very loyal. And that is also something I am glad for."

"And I'm glad for you," said Lance, stopping. Alistair and Leliana stopped, too, taking a few steps back to give Lance and Morrigan space. Lance was grateful for it.

"Warden, I cannot allow you say… _those things_ again."

"What things? That I love you?"

"Yes. _That_."

"Oh. Well, it's true. I love you."

"Stop it."

"I love you, Morrigan," he said again, smiling wide. She looked flustered.

"Do not do this," she said. "'Tis not amusing."

"Oh, but it is," he said, stepping closer to her. "My love."

She tried hard to suppress a smile. "'Tis not chivalrous to tease a lady."

"Let me just try something else then," he said. He put one arm around her, drawing her in close. She gripped his arms, steadying herself. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were at half-mast; she wanted this.

"You desire an audience, do you?" she asked, indicating Leliana and Alistair. Alistair had already set to mock-vomiting while Leliana smiled big and happy.

"Love, I would tell all of Thedas if I could."

Leliana called, "Oh, go on, you two!"

"Oh! Seems we have approval," Morrigan said. And she closed her eyes, reaching up to hold him as he leaned into her. His own hands were at the small of her back, pressing her against him.

He felt her near him, her lips near his, heart racing, breathing shallow.

_Thank the Maker for her._

"Get down!" Alistair called, pulling Lance from his reverie. He looked around, racing to figure out what was happening.

"Oh, shit."

The High Dragon had risen from its slumber, incensed to fury by some unknown provocation. It soared over them, letting out an ear-splitting screech that caused Lance to clap his hands to his ears. It circled them once, faster than Lance could think.

And then it came barreling towards them. Lance reacted on instinct. He shoved Morrigan, pushing her away, hopefully to safety. And he ran the opposite direction, luring the dragon in. It spit fire at him.

He hoped Morrigan had made it clear of the blast. He rolled, hoping the snow would do something, anything, to help him. There was an eruption of fire and heat, his back burned fiercely. But he was alive.

He came up with his sword in hand.

The dragon was facing him, snarling. It roared, and Lance was brought to a knee. Heat billowed from its maw, its massive tongue flopped about, spattering saliva and burning spittle. Alistair and Leliana were on the move, but Lance couldn't see Morrigan from here. He prayed that she was unharmed.

Lance rolled left, just out of reach of the dragon's snapping mouth. If it caught him, he was done for. It would rip him in half it was feeling merciful. Or it would drag him off and leave him to the mercy of its brood.

An arrow, sizzling with fire, struck the dragon's face, bouncing harmlessly from its thick snout.

"Face me, creature!" Leliana shouted. She ran, satisfied that its attention was drawn to her. Lance moved.

"Alistair, get on its flanks. Do not pass in front of it."

Leliana turned, fired another arrow to keep its focus. Lance wasn't sure what to do. They had to get out of there. But could they do it without having to slay a gods damn dragon? He wasn't sure that was an option.

It was chasing Leliana now, letting its massive clawed feet pound the ground where it walked, sending claps of thunder echoing from the mountain. She was running towards a shattered dome, one of the last decaying ruins of the temple. Lance cursed under his breath. Leliana would have only a moment of safety there before the dragon tore it apart. He and Alistair would have to move.

Lance chased after the dragon, feeling his heart thudding in his chest. He had to be six kinds of dumb to do this. Alistair was following, far to the right. They needed to stay split, to reduce the danger to any one of them at a given moment.

Leliana dove for the shattered dome, slipping in between a crack in its ancient stone side. She crawled through the debris, putting as much distance between herself and the dragon as she could.

Lance prayed it was enough.

The dragon reared back on its haunches, massive, muscular neck craning. And it breathed fire into the dome, sweeping left and right.

"Oh, please be okay," Lance found himself shouting. He approached from the dragon's flank, and Alistair went to its opposite side. Lance jumped for it, sword held underhand. The blade bit into the dragon's flesh, and he held on, weight causing the sword to rip through the thick hide of the dragon's belly.

It screeched in pain, the inferno issuing from its mouth cut short. Its neck twisted, and it was staring Lance down. He imagined that he only had a few seconds of life left. He reacted, letting go of the sword. It remained embedded in the dragon's side and Lance fell to the snow-packed ground.

Scorching pain shot up his leg.

He cried out.

The dragon turned itself, tail whipping wildly. Lance knew this was it.

Then Alistair shouted, slashing the dragon's leg. It roared, deafening the two warriors. It debated in its head whether or not to devour the warrior on its left or right.

It went for Alistair.

There wasn't much left for Lance to fight with, his sword still in the dragon's side. He had his dagger, for all the good that did him. He tried to think up a plan of attack, to figure out how to strike the beast. He needed to get his hands on his sword again.

Alistair ducked under the dragon's tail, trying to keep out of its line of attack. Unfortunately for him, the dragon just kicked him aside.

He hit the ground hard, rolled twice. The dragon turned about, ready to eat the young Warden.

And then the wind and snow kicked up, from out of nowhere. It buffeted them all, the chill air making it hard to stand without shivering. Snow filled his vision, nearly blocking out all sight.

It was a blizzard.

The dragon swayed its head from side to side, unable to clear its vision. Alistair took the chance to run, disappearing from the dragon's sight into the thick snow.

The dragon was stuck looking left and right, trying to find a snack. Lance saw Morrigan standing, staff raised, conjuring up more snow, more wind.

He had to use the opening she provided to the fullest. He ran, trying to get on the side of the dragon that his sword was stuck in. He worked it out in his head, how he would damage the dragon. If he could put it in enough pain he could give them all an opening to escape into the temple.

But then its attention turned completely on Morrigan.

It took flight, leaping the distance between it and Morrigan, landing with force enough to knock her off her feet.

Lance tried to run, putting the screeching pain of his ankle to the back of his mind. He wasn't fast enough, though. It slammed her with it claw, knocking her into the ground. The wind and snow halted immediately, and she wasn't moving.

_No, that's impossible!_

The dragon arched its neck, readying to eat her.

"No!" he shouted, able to be heard now that the wind had died. The dragon paused, turned its attention to the warrior rushing for it. He was closer, close enough that if he could keep its attention, he could win, he could save her. He had to save her. Please, just save her!

And its tail whipped out, connecting with his chest.

His armor buckled, then shattered, and Lance flew backwards, bits of his armor still strapped to him. He landed on his back. Something inside him was broken, pressing against his innards. He was sick now, and he couldn't breathe. He tasted blood, couldn't feel his left arm.

But he didn't have a choice.

He stood up, struggling to get to his knees.

The dragon shrieked, savoring the moment. Morrigan lay limp before it, vulnerable in a very literal way. Lance couldn't bear to let it happen. He would die before he let it happen.

A switch flipped on in his brain.

He was going to die today. He was going to die, to make sure she didn't.

"Hey! Over here, you bitch!"

He was on his feet, the pain an afterthought. He was running as fast as he could. The dragon snapped its head back, watching him approach.

It whipped its tail at him again.

Lance leapt, dagger still in hand. He grabbed the dragon's tail, wrapping his legs around it and held on, trying to concentrate past the wild movements. He felt his chest hurting, knew that something was injured severely within him.

He stabbed the dragon's tail with his dagger, keeping hold of it for stability. He used it to climb up the beast's tail, coming closer to its body.

It forgot all about Morrigan, instead focused on the warrior clambering over its body, trying to kill it.

He gripped one of the spines at the base of its tail, pulling himself onto its body proper. The dragon beat its wings, slapping him with wind, trying to dislodge him. It twisted left and right, trying to shake him. It didn't work. Then its wings flapped, slowly at first.

_For sod sake!_

And he felt its muscles tense.

It jumped, wings beating, and it took flight. Lance risked a glance over, seeing the snowy mountain pick begin to drop away. He leaned to the other side, reaching out for the hilt of his sword. He gripped it, even as the dragon began to rise dangerously high.

He pulled his sword free, causing the dragon some great deal of pain. It called out, listed madly. It soared over the peak rapidly, beating its wings faster to keep it from falling back to the ground. Lance wriggled his way up the dragon's neck, holding on tight with his legs as it snapped its head left and right to knock him off. It was rising higher and higher, readying itself to leave the mountain.

If that happened, he was as good as dead.

He grabbed the sword, held it with both hands, stretching it high over his head.

The dragon looked up at the sword, seeing its impending doom.

"I'll die for her," he said. And he brought the sword down into its eye.

He stabbed again and again, the dragon screeching loud enough to shake the shattered bones in his chest.

But he kept stabbing, kept killing.

He felt the blade break through the roof of the dragon's mouth, ripping into its bottom jaw and poking out the other side. The dragon spasmed, wings flapping disjointedly.

And it began to fall.

Lance pulled his sword free, and relaxed.

The dragon gave one final snap of its head, and finally managed to rid itself of its attacker, though it was too little too late.

Lance held onto his sword, even as he fell.

He could see the sky, clouds drifting away lazily.

There was a strange serenity there. And he was okay.

Morrigan was alive, and that was all that mattered. He was falling, but that was okay.

"Figures."

And he hit the ground, everything going black.


	35. Three Weeks Later

He coughed blood, he was sure. Nothing was too solid, though. There was searing pain throughout his body, and there were people shouting.

"Out of my way, fool. Warden, can you hear me?"

"Don't touch him, he's hurt!"

"He's _dying_ you imbecile. Go stand over there."

"Maker, please help him. I know you miss your Children, so please let your mercy-"

"Hush, girl! Help me get him to his feet!"

He had the briefest feeling of floating, of being lifted. He was being carried, he thought. His feet dragged on the ground, and there was pain. He faded out.

He couldn't be sure exactly what happened, if he was conscious for all of it. He didn't think so.

"And why should I not be the one to heal him? I my magic somehow inferior because I did not allow myself to be chained to some tower?"

"Be reasonable, Morrigan, he's hurt!"

"And I will heal him."

"At least allow her to check on him!"

He felt the tingling sensation of bone being put back together within him. He was aware of soft hands on his forehead, a familiar voice whispering that he was fevered. There were other times when he heard the voice saying other things, talking about a mother and about childhood. He couldn't quite assemble the thoughts, but he knew it made him sad.

He could feel other things in the darkness, the inky blackness that consumed him.

Were they memories, or just dreams? He couldn't tell.

"_Little brother, I'd like you to meet Oriana, my wife."_

"_Pleasure to meet you."_

He knew that he was happy to think of that. And that he wanted to think more of it.

"_Come here, girl."_

"_Oh, My Lord! Ah!"_

And he knew that he felt a fond longing for that, tinted with sadness. He could smell food cooking now, and he knew he was fond of that, too.

There was warmth at his lips.

"There. Eat up. You must keep your strength up."

It tasted good. He swallowed.

He had moments of consciousness, he was sure. He opened his eyes, was even able to rub at them. He made noises, asking where he was.

"Shh. You are with me. You are safe."

He closed his eyes and slept more.

"_We love you."_

He was able to speak, "No. Father… don't."

"Hush, Warden. Do not dream of that. Dream of peace."

"Okay."

He dreamed of a woman. She was beautiful. He was with her in his dreams, kissing her, touching her. She whispered his name, moaned aloud.

"_Lance!"_

He loved her, he was sure. Her hair smelled like wild berries, and her skin was soft, smooth. He kissed her.

"Morrigan…"

He reached out, felt about him, searching for her. He found nothing, and he panicked. With a great force of effort he opened his eyes, sat up.

"Morrigan?"

His ribs were tight across his chest, and his leg ached. He was sure that most of his bones had been magically re-grown since he'd last been awake.

He was at camp now, though how he got there was a mystery to him.

He struggled to stand but found that it wasn't a likely option.

"Warden!" a familiar voice called. He looked around, saw that she was coming to his side. She was knelt beside him, holding him. "Be careful. You are not fully healed."

He reached up, putting one hand on the back of her neck. He was relieved to have her here, relieved to know that he hadn't lost her.

"I was afraid I wouldn't be seeing you again," he said. And he leaned towards as best she could, and she did him the favor of leaning the rest of the way in. He kissed her.

"I would be lying if I told you that I did not miss that," she said. "In fact, I daresay that I was quite afraid that there would be no more of that."

"I would come back from the Fade itself just to kiss you," he said. She blushed a bit, if that were even possible for her.

"I… do not speak like that. You know 'tis wrong."

"No, it isn't."

He looked around. He was in Morrigan's tent, he realized. It must have been nearly midday. He couldn't see any of the others.

"Where's-"

"They are settling matters at Redcliffe," she said. Lance wrinkled his brow.

"Without me?"

"We could not wait for you to heal. Our mission is far more important than that."

"We can spare a few days," said Lance, a bit annoyed at having been left behind. He looked up at Morrigan; saw the concern in her face. "What?"

"Warden, you were unconscious for three weeks."

Three weeks? He was out for that long? He must have been far worse off than he thought. How bad had it been?

"You were… quite the mess," said Morrigan, seemingly able to read his mind. "There were moments when I thought…"

"Don't go there."

"Yes, Warden."

He took a breath. He stood, legs wobbling.

"They were both shattered," said Morrigan. "You are lucky to be able to walk."

"I have you to thank for that, then?"

"Yes. You could say that."

He felt his chin. The stubble he remembered there had grown quite a bit in three weeks.

"Do you have my things?"

Morrigan nodded. She turned to dig through a pile of his possessions.

"Your armor was beyond any repair," she said. "But I was able to save your sword and dagger."

She handed him a set of fresh clothes. He took it, digging through them for his belt knife. The small stream they camped by was tempting. Three weeks lying bedridden had left him a little less than fresh. He stripped out of the blood-stained, sweat-soaked clothing he'd been wearing, not at all disturbed by Morrigan's staring.

He set them aside. There was no reason he need bother ever wearing those again. He stepped into the water, wading until it was at his chest. It was freezing cold, not that he minded.

He washed dried blood and sweat out of his hair. It was longer and messier than he'd left home with. He felt clean for this time in a long while.

He put the belt knife to his short beard, scraping lightly and wiping the knife off in the stream.

"I rather liked your new look," said Morrigan, sitting cross-legged on the shore. He laughed.

"I was never much for beards. Could never grow a proper one."

"The Chasind folk do not grow beards either. For fear that my mother might snatch them away by it."

"Not something she would do?"

"Oh, 'tis not for me to say. I did always wonder how she lured those Chasind men to her bed."

"That's disgusting," said Lance. The right side of his face was smooth again, and he rubbed there to ease the burning sensation. "Does that mean you're a Chasind?"

"I do not share their beliefs. Why would I consider myself to be one of them?"

"I suppose you wouldn't. I only meant that you are a child of a Chasind man, yes?"

"I do not know."

"Flemeth never told you about your father?"

"Never. I could only make assumptions about who he may have been. I often asked mother about my birth. She would only laugh."

"Why would she laugh? Did she not wish to tell you?"

Morrigan rested her chin on her fist, looking up towards the sky. Her demeanor changed, and she was far more thoughtful than their previous conversations had been.

"I suppose she didn't. I always wondered. Perhaps she stole me away? Perhaps I was born to different parents entirely?"

"Then you would still have a family out there."

"Perhaps. But I would need nothing they could provide."

"You think."

"I know, Warden. What does a family do that my own mother did not? Can you really say that for all the coddling and 'nurture' you were shown you are a better person for it? Do you not wonder what you could have become had you the proper teachings of a _real_ mother?"

"A real mother? I had a real mother. I loved her. She told me every day that she was proud of me, that I was going to be something important. I had a father, too. He taught me everything I know. They're both dead now. So, do I think I'm a weaker person? No."

"But you were not taught the true meaning of life, about the true value of worldly things. You were coddled. You were weakened. And when it was stolen from you, were left without your own strength to stand on."

"You left out the most important part."

"What was that?"

"Rendon Howe. And that I will kill him."

"You think that to be strength?"

"It's kept me going thus far."

"I see."

"No. You don't."

He ran his hand over his freshly shaven face, feeling a bit more like normal. His body was still sore. His muscles felt tight. Three weeks bedridden probably had some severely negative effects on his body. It looked like they would be spending a significant amount of their time training. Or else Alistair would be leading the group.

He waded back to where Morrigan sat.

"What about me?" he asked. "Isn't there anything you need from me?"

"I could perhaps think of something."

She leaned towards him, resting on her elbows. He knew where this conversation was going and rather liked it.

With a somewhat juvenile smirk he considered pulling her into the water with him. She would be angry, sure. But she would thank him for it by the time they were finished.

Maker, he wanted her. She was so beautiful, so within reach. He could take her now, he knew. The others were a day's trip away. They could spend the entire afternoon in the water, intertwined. He shifted a bit, making sure she couldn't tell what he was thinking through the water.

He reached up, cupping her cheeks in his hands.

"You are the most beautiful woman alive."

"Tell me something I do not know."

"I love you. But you already knew that one, right?"

She glanced away from him. "I told you never to say that."

"What're you gonna do about it?"

"Why must you pester me so? I do not say the same thing to you again and again."

"It's my favorite way of annoying you."

"Wouldn't poking me with a stick work just as well, for less effort?"

"I could give it a whirl."

She smiled, but looked away regardless. He liked that she was flustered, that she was uncomfortable by his admissions. It only meant that he was bringing her closer to him. She was almost ready, he knew. All this time away from her vile upbringing and the kooky woman in the Wilds had been good to her. Soon she would admit that she loved him as sincerely as he loved her, and that would be the end of that.

"What do you hope from this… relationship of ours?" she asked after a long moment. He shrugged, letting the faintest shadow of a smile flash across his face.

"What do you mean?"

"You do not think that anything could come of us, do you? Children, a home, you paint the shed while I bake the bread?"

She was sarcastic now, as she usually was. He didn't mind. To him, this was all just some vast game she played. She danced around her feelings, and around his. Maybe she sincerely believed that he wanted such a life for her.

"I don't know the first thing about painting a shed," said Lance. She shook her head.

"You miss the point," she said. "You do not understand my meaning. 'Tis time we ended this entanglement, before you enrapture yourself further within it."

"No," he said. She gave an exasperated sigh. "What's so wrong with being the Teyrna of Highever? I thought that was the exact sort of thing you would like."

"Political status? In fickle human society?"

"It's Ferelden society," he said. She shrugged.

"'Tis all the same in the Wilds. But you have not answered me."

"I don't want that for us," he said. "Does that satisfy you? In truth, I don't care. I just want to be with you."

"You wish a great a deal from me. More than is your right."

"I can't help it. You've already taken as much from me."

"I did no such thing."

"Yes. You have."

"What have I taken from you? I see no shackles on your arms. You are a free man."

"You've shackled me. I'm shackled to you," he bit his tongue at the stupid, stupid words that came out of his mouth. He wasn't used to such emotional confessions. It was all strange to him and he felt that he was ruining everything.

"I mean," he corrected. "My heart. You've stolen it."

"I would give it back, had I the capability."

"And you don't."

He reached up, pulling himself closer to her. He kissed her cheek, lightly. She tried to kiss him back, to pull him into a longer embrace. He refused.

"Say it," he told her. She looked a bit confused.

"I know not what you mean."

"Yes, you do. Say that you love me."

"I will not."

"Why? Do you not care for me? Am I not to your liking?"

"I… such a statement is debilitating. 'Tis relinquishing power. 'Tis allowing you to own me."

"I don't want to own you," Lance said. "I want to love you."

"And I would very much enjoy loving you."

"That's not what I mean. But, yeah, that would be fun."

"We have time," she said. She extended her hand to him. "The others will not be back until the wee hours of the morning. Come to my tent."

"Not until you say it."

She hissed air between her teeth.

"Why, Warden? Why must you be so difficult? Can you think of any reason why we should not?"

"Because it's worthless to me if I don't know it means as much to you."

She sat back, thinking. He hoped she understood his position, hoped she was capable of it.

"Warden?"

"Morrigan."

She grit her teeth. "I love you now come to bed."

"That's not good enough. You have to mean it."

She sighed, and threw her hands up in the air.

"'Tis a child I deal with!"

He dipped his head under the water, filling his mouth. He bobbed his head back up and spit the water out at her, eliciting a surprised screech. She slid her hand along the water, gathering up enough to splash him.

The game continued for another moment, before Morrigan called an end to it.

"Give me you knife," she said. Lance frowned.

"What're you gonna do with it?"

"Your hair. You look like a wild animal."


	36. King Alistair

They still weren't back yet. Lance was alone with Morrigan and though he often desired as much this was quite undesirable.

He set almost immediately to getting himself back in shape. It had been a long time since he'd gone through an actual exercise regimen – hours sparring were enough after a certain point – and so it felt just as awkward and foreign as his first day among the guard recruits had.

He was on the ground, switching between push-ups and sit-ups. He had never been so injured before but he was certain the magical treatment had made him… fuzzy. It felt strange to exert himself. His muscles felt taut, requiring much stretching before he could feel anything close to right.

"That is so…" Morrigan began.

"So what? Attractive? Smart?"

"Plebian."

"I see."

She watched him, sitting at her fire and mixing potions. He wondered what she was concocting, if it wasn't something she'd share with him. It was probably poison.

She walked over to him, watching him perform the push-ups over and over. He was dimly aware that she was standing over him, leering, some might say.

"Oh, Warden, I could think of much better uses of our time."

"Not this again. I told you I'm not in the mood for a fling."

"No? 'Tis not what I meant."

"What did you mean?"

She kicked him, causing him to roll onto his side. He was up in an instant, taking a fighting stance. She donned a similar one. He was reacting on instinct, rusty skills coming sharply to life. He didn't know what she was getting at, but he was game for a fight.

He didn't think that she knew very much in the way of fighting, but with her magic she probably didn't need to.

She threw a punch at him, sloppy, like one who had little experience with a brawl. He caught it, gripped her elbow, twisted her arm out of the way and got into her defenses. She was smiling.

A quick kick to his gut and she was free.

Sloppy of him.

"Come now, Warden, you cannot be so easily beaten by a girl."

He grinned, resolving himself to impress her with some act of amazing martial prowess.

He charged her, taking her in her midsection. A quick move, pulling her legs out, and she was on her back. He was on top of her, keeping her pinned.

"I won," he said. She had that same devious smile on her face.

"And to the victor, the spoils."

She gave him a shove, turning the tables so that she was on top. She held his wrists tightly, letting him know who was in charge.

She leaned over, kissing him. It was different, that was for sure. Her tongue probed for entry, and he was glad to have her. She ground against him, friction creating a bit of excitement.

"Wait," he said, pulling away. "No, Morrigan."

"Warden, my pet," she said, laughing. "You do not have a choice in the matter. Not anymore."

She used her magic, kept him lying on the ground. Or at least he told himself it was magic. That was it, right? She reached down, quickly unfastening his belt.

"Morrigan…"

"Hush."

She threw the leather piece aside. He reached up finally, spell – or whatever – wearing off. He grabbed her hips, rolled them over. It was hard to resist, he admitted. He didn't want to have her unless he was sure she loved him, but it was obvious what she wanted. And they were alone. So why not?

He kissed her again.

"I have been… 'deprived' for some time, Warden," she said. "And I have longed for this."

"So have I," he told her. He set to kissing her neck, wondering if she cared at all for such tenderness. He wet his lips, eager, balanced on his elbows. He looked down at her fantastic body, clad in scant clothing. He could barely contain himself. He wanted to rip off those robes and take her in the middle of camp.

But he couldn't do it, not without knowing that she was serious, that this wasn't just some amusement for her.

He simply wouldn't.

"Morrigan," he said. She made a noise, upset at their activities having stopped. "Morrigan. I need you to say it."

"What? This, _now_?"

"Yes, now. Morrigan, I want you more than you could imagine. I love you so much. When that dragon…" his voice caught in his throat. He couldn't imagine it again. Not now. "Morrigan, please tell me that this all isn't for nothing."

"Warden…" she breathed. "Do you need me to beg?"

"I don't want you to beg."

Lance stood up, moved to collect his belt. She reached out for him, grabbed him by the ankle.

"I saw you fall," she said. "It took only three seconds. It was eternity to me. Do not _ever_ do that again. _Ever_. You are too precious to lose."

"Precious? To you?"

She didn't reply.

"I see."

He put his belt back on, fastened it. He kept his back to her so that she couldn't see the considerable interest she had created.

"You are a strange man," she said. "And lucky."

"Lucky? That I didn't die?"

"That there is not another man in our party that I tolerate."

"Thank the Maker for that."

"I did not mean to say that," she said. Lance glanced over his shoulder at her. She was still sitting, knees drawn up to her chest. She looked like she was miles away. "I say things, vile things. I do not mean to. I value you, Warden, more than you can know."

"And I value you more than you can know."

He looked up the small beaten path from the camp to the main road. Alistair and the others were coming back finally. What perfect timing. He turned and gave Morrigan a hand, helping her to stand.

Alistair saw that Lance was ambulatory and jogged the remaining distance to the camp.

"Oh, thank the Maker," he exclaimed. "You had me worried. I thought we'd run out of miracles."

"I'm good," he said. "A little tired of getting the living crap kicked out of me, but good."

Leliana was right behind Alistair, pushing him aside and putting her arms around Lance, burying her face in his chest.

"I was so afraid I lost you."

Lance struggled to return the embrace, placing a kiss on the top of her head. She stepped back, regarding him with a wide smile. She looked over at Morrigan, who had crossed her arms and begun frowning.

"Morrigan! Thank you so much! You were right; I should have trusted you from the beginning."

"Yes. You would do well to remember that in the future."

"Of course."

Leliana hugged him again and stepped aside, allowing Zevran and Wynne to speak with him. They approached, smiling.

"Ah, boss, I was afraid that I would not be given the chance to live up to my debt," said Zevran. Lance nodded.

"And it would be quite unfortunate if you were left alive and I was in the ground."

"Yes, it would. I hope that in the future you will think to bring me along. These moments of… celebration would be fewer, certainly."

Lance nodded, and the assassin made room for Wynne.

"It is good to see you again, Warden. I had my… trepidations about Morrigan's magic, but I see that my concerns were unnecessary. Thank you, Morrigan."

The younger mage made a noise in her throat, making it a point not to look Wynne in the eye. Lance could recall some feeling that they had argued over him while he slept. Lance stepped closer to Morrigan, slipped his arm about her waist. She tensed briefly, and then she was relaxed again. Her own arm was around him now, and she stood taller, reveling in the defiant action.

"I owe her everything," Lance said. Wynne nodded.

"Indeed. Warden, perhaps later we might have a word?"

"As you please."

The others left to go about their business, sharpening weapons and saying prayers. Alistair stood before Lance, obviously uncomfortable with Morrigan's presence, and especially with her being so near to his only remaining Warden friend.

"Lance, if I may," he said. Lance nodded for him to continue. Alistair glanced at Morrigan nervously. "I'd like to fill in the blanks. About Redcliffe."

He was sweating bullets and Lance realized that there was something more, more than Morrigan and her self-sure smile. He was seriously worried about something.

"Go ahead, Alistair. Whatever it is, just speak it."

Lance felt himself tense, worried now. He had been so caught up in Morrigan and getting himself back up and running that he'd forgotten about the tenuous state of the world, the growing Darkspawn horde in the south. He wondered then how large the Blight had gotten, if they weren't already too late to save anything important. If Flemeth's hut and the whole of Korcari Wilds had been overrun.

"Arl Eamon… he intends for me to be on the throne!"

"What?"

Morrigan could barely suppress a laugh, choking on it.

"_You_, a king? I would sooner believe you a Grey Warden!" she said. Alistair gave her a sour look.

"He thinks that I have a strong claim to the throne, being Maric's bastard and whatnot."

"Well…" Lance said. His father had spoken highly of Maric and of his mother, the Rebel Queen. They had kicked Orlais out of Ferelden some thirty years ago, making them all heroes for it. His father had been popular at court for it, and had the ear of Maric almost always. King Maric had passed before Lance had ever met him, but he knew that he was supposed to be proof positive of the Theirin bloodline's right to rule.

"You sort of do," Lance said finally. Alistair looked aghast.

"Me? A king? I would sooner believe myself a real Grey Warden!"

Lance cocked an eyebrow and glanced at Morrigan.

"Never mind that," said Alistair. "I can't be a king!"

"Who better?"

"Well, I don't know. How about Anora, the queen? She was always a close adviser to Cailan. She'd be better for it."

"But there's no heir," said Lance. "Without an heir, the minute Anora croaks there'll be civil war."

"Why don't you do it?" Alistair asked. Lance nearly vomited at the thought. Him, king? He'd sooner believe himself a real Grey Warden!

"That's not an option!"

"Oh, why not?" Alistair asked. "You're father was well-liked. There were some who thought that he should be king and not Cailan, the blubbering fool he was."

It was true. Father had been popular among the nobles for having served in the war. And there were those that said he should have been king. The only reason he wasn't, of course, was because he had no desire to press the matter and didn't really like the idea of King Bryce Cousland. But if he knew of Loghain's treachery? What would he have done?

Lance wasn't a very public member of the Highever ruling class, and eschewed the politics of life at court. But it was that quality, combined with his father's seemingly unshakable faith in him, that created the widely-held belief he would succeed his father as Teyrn, and not Fergus. He had never entertained such notions; father was supposed to live forever.

But here he was… with a real, legitimate claim to the throne? With Cailan dead, and no heir, only the two Teyrns could hope to have any support in a bid for the throne. Loghain was a war hero and personal confidant of Maric and Cailan, father would have backed him and he would have had the throne. But if the news that Loghain had betrayed the throne got out, if they knew what he had done in Redcliffe and the Circle tower…

Lance could do it. He could argue in his father's place. He could get the support of nobles. He would be a hero, raised onto the throne by Ferelden's ruling class without issue.

The real question was if he wanted that.

And he didn't. As it was he hated being a Teyrn's son; what would being a king do for his sanity? Sod all that.

"Alistair, it sounds to me like you're going to be a king."

"What? How could you say that? Take it back!"

"It's the only way. Anora can't rule alone; who would stand behind her? She has no blood, no heir, her father's bonkers."

"And I'm a better candidate? I will remind you that the closest I ever came to politics was wetting myself in Redcliffe's main hall."

Morrigan laughed, and made ready to use that against him. Lance pinched her to keep her quiet.

"You'll figure it out, man," said Lance. "But the fact of the matter is that you're the only one that deserves to sit on that throne."

"What about you?"

"I'm a Grey Warden."

"But-"

"That's the end of it. Besides, that's a ways off. We have larger fish to put to the fire."

Alistair nodded, head slumped.

Lance reached out to touch his shoulder, reassuring his friend. He saw someone approaching, tensed and looked up. Coming down the road, a man that seemed to be a trader of sorts. Lance glanced around the camp quickly, looking for signs of ambush.

Zevran caught his gaze, signaled to him by tapping his nose. Lance nodded. The Elven assassin stepped out of sight, into the forest. If there was someone out there, then they were going to die. Or end up with a creepy Elf following them around.

"Hello," the man called to them. "I don't suppose you gents are Grey Wardens?"

"And what if we are?" asked Lance, approaching cautiously. The man held up his hands, defensively. He was trying to show that he meant no harm, and his smile was laden with a bit of worry.

"Then you're the leader, I take it? I know this is rather sudden, but I require a favor of the Wardens. Or rather one was promised to me."

"Who are you, ser?"

"I am Levi Dryden. Levi the Trader? Levi of the Coin? And I have the deal of a lifetime."


	37. Warden's Keep

So this "deal of a lifetime" turned out to be one of the longest walks through the roughest terrain he'd ever taken part in.

Duncan, rest his soul, had apparently promised Levi Dryden the opportunity to reclaim his family's armor. Or honor – Lance hadn't really paid too much attention. Dryden was a black name amongst the nobility, Lance knew. There was some scandal with them centuries ago. According to Levi, it was also related to why the Grey Wardens had only recently been allowed back in Ferelden.

Lance found it hard to believe, but, at least according to Levi, his great-grandrelation Sophia Dryden had been a contender for the Ferelden throne, alongside Arland. Though the details were lost to history, she had led a short-lived resistance against the man, eventually quelled and saved from execution by the Grey Wardens.

She was the last Warden Commander of Ferelden, having led a rebellion against King Arland, managing only to make both the Wardens and the Drydens unwanted in Ferelden. Lance couldn't say as though he was fond of the woman.

However, she was a Grey Warden, a Warden Commander. She was a sister to him, and Duncan had promised to help Levi find some evidence to clear his name and reclaim the Warden's Keep at Soldier's Peak.

And what a Keep it was.

They'd spent the better part of an hour navigating aged mining tunnels, in dangerous levels of disrepair, in an effort to reach the mountain's peak and the ancient Grey Warden headquarters there. When they finally stepped out of the mine tunnels, into view of the castle, Lance had lost all his doubts about this errand.

"Soldier's Peak," said Alistair. They looked up at it, massive, imposing stone walls and thick wooden gates. Lance was reminded of his own castle, and it stung him still. "Looks like it's seen better days. Better centuries more like."

"Once the Grey Wardens flourished, their ranks full, their caliber certain. Now they even accept you, Alistair."

"Hey!"

The Keep was in need of a polish. Some of the stonework was crumbling and the wood was decaying. Mountain snow had built itself up in and around the Keep, such that there was little need to take the front gate; they could climb over the wall using the ramp of snow.

The wind picked up, sending chills up and down Lance's spine. He was unarmored still – this was supposed to be a short trip, after all – and wore the thickest clothing he could find. He glanced over at Morrigan, who was rubbing her bare arms for warmth. She was a mage and so was able to conjure heat from within herself for warmth.

Though her choice of clothing made little sense on top of a mountain.

"Let's go," Lance said. Zevran followed him closely, eyed suspiciously be Morrigan. Wynne brought up the rear, chatting happily with Leliana. Ajax waited back at the bottom of the mines, guarding camp.

Lance strode purposefully through the gates of the Keep, eager to get inside where they would be guarded from the wind.

There were bodies scattered about, Lance realized. They decayed to their skeletal forms, only small bits of flesh remaining. The mountain cold hadn't done much to preserve them, it being warm enough in the hot season to allow the carrion devourers access.

Lance took a step forward, about to ask what had happened there to create so many bodies, when it hit them.

"_Ser, the Wardens defend their Keep like animals! We cannot break through!"_

"_Then we will fall back, starve them out."_

"_Ser, they have food enough to last for months!"_

"_Then we wait. When they are too weak to lift weapons, then they will die!"_

Lance stumbled backwards, reaching out to steady himself. Morrigan grabbed his shoulder, holding him solidly. Levi looked bewildered.

"What was that? Did that just happen? I've never seen that before in my life!"

"The Veil is thin here," said Lance. Levi looked confused.

"The Veil?"

"It's what separates us from the Fade. And demons."

"Demons? Oh, boy, am I glad you're here, Warden."

And as if those were the magic words, the skeletons came to life. There were dozens of them, buried in the snow, lying on the ground in piles, arrows and swords beside them. A few others were scattered on the steps leading up to the castle proper, having died approaching the arrowslits next to the heavy wooden doors.

Lance drew his sword, counting the number of skeletons come to life. Too many. He was unarmored, and they were outnumbered.

"Morrigan, Wynne, whittle down the left. Leliana, stay back and cover. Alistair, Zevran, on my back. Levi, try not to get in the way."

The skeletons weren't as organized. Whatever demons had spurred them into action cared not for tactics and strategy.

The first skeleton to approach Lance found that its rusted gear couldn't stand up to his battle-tested sword. A quick parry and its blade snapped in two. A whip of his wrist and the creature was left twitching in the snow, cut in half.

Wynne and Morrigan worked together, able to tolerate each other enough to get the job done. Lance was proud of that. They combined their abilities to create sweeping whirlwinds that sent the skeleton warriors flying out in all directions, smashed against the stone walls. The entire left flank was covered by them.

Alistair took to bashing the skeletons to pieces, while Zevran used quick knife play to rid them of limbs and skulls.

Soon, the courtyard was once more a mess of scattered bones. Lance kept his sword up, sweeping the courtyard to make sure that there were no remaining surprises.

"Something happened here," said Lance. "The Veil isn't so flimsy to just rip apart."

"Perhaps there were acts of… desperation performed here?" Morrigan offered. "Perhaps backdoor deals for aid against the king's armies?"

"The Grey Wardens summoning demons?" asked Wynne, incredulous. "Surely they would not be so short-sighted."

"Whatever it takes to win," said Lance. "No matter the cost."

Lance approached the thick wooden doors to the Keep cautiously. If more Fade spirits broke through, there was no telling what they would be facing. He didn't want to be stuck on top of the mountain fighting demons while the Blight was growing in southern Ferelden.

The door was left ajar. Lance gave it a slight nudge, opening it wide enough for the full party to pass through.

There was another flash of confusion, the feeling of being elsewhere.

"_Commander Dryden, the men are losing heart. It is not an affliction that my spells can heal."_

"_You have done your job, Avernus. I shall do mine. I will remind the men that they are Grey Wardens."_

Lance felt nausea, fell to his knees. He could feel Sophia Dryden, feel her speaking. She was charismatic and brave, a noble through-and-through. Just the type that father would have enjoyed. He was aware that she was skilled commander, that she was worthy of respect. Had she still commanded the Wardens of Ferelden, he would not have hesitated to follow her.

When his head cleared he realized that he was kneeling in the greeting chambers of the Keep. And that the room was covered in thick layers of dust, that there were scattered weapons and pieces of armor about, that one door was blocked by a mountain of junk to form a makeshift barricade.

He looked around him; saw that only he and Alistair had been so affected.

"I felt it too," Alistair said. Lance nodded and stood. Morrigan tapped her chin, interested.

"I have not heard of such a thing," she said. "Mother never made mention of such events being possible and I was quite under the impression that she had taught me all I needed to know about the Fade."

"There are tales of these experiences," said Wynne. "In older books. I had always thought that it was a lost art."

"Yes, well regardless I don't think I like this one bit," said Levi. Lance tried to reassure him.

"You have greatness in your blood, if Sophia is anything to go by," he said. Levi looked sheepish for a moment.

"Oh, that's kind of you to say," he said. "Let's get on before we suck up all the dust."

Lance nodded, keeping his blade ready. He was quite curious as to how a woman as decidedly strong as Sophia – Commander of the Grey, no less – could turn to rebellion. He hoped that further investigation of the Keep would yield more details.

The entire castle appeared to be a mess. Two hundred odd years of abandonment had done wonders for the décor. And of course, a tear in the Veil had made the various corpses more susceptible to possession.

The last thing Lance expected to find, however, was an Arcane Horror standing before a lit fireplace, as though relaxing. Demons possessed mages, that was a fact of life. It was one of the reasons why the Chantry so adamantly guarded mages with their army of Templars. It was why a mage was little more than a scourge to humanity in most people's eyes. And sometimes, a mage could remain possessed even past their lifetime.

And such was the nature of an Arcane Horror.

It turned around, fleshless face in a perpetual grin. It raised its hands, summoning a magical blast.

"Spread!"

They went in several directions at once, allowing the blast of magic to smash into the wall behind them. Lance jumped up onto his feet, muscles still stiff but reacting on memory regardless.

The Arcane Horror summoned up a few skeletal minions, bringing them in for battle. Doors opened, tables were thrown aside. The full force of the Wardens and soldiers that had died in battle there was flooding into the great hall.

The Arcane Horror was suddenly one of a hundred different problems they had now.

Lance slashed left and right, shattering through the decayed bones of attacking skeletons. Wynne was nearest him, and she made to square off with the Arcane Horror in magical combat. Lance had heard stories of such battles. They tended to leave vast tracts of land uninhabitable.

To her credit, Wynne was very accurate with her magic. A stone fist smashed into the Horror, shattering a few of its less sturdy bones. He returned fire with a bolt of lightning. She summoned up a shield to deflect the blast.

Lance wanted to watch her fight, to watch her kill the Horror in the most creative way possible. Unfortunately, a platoon of skeletons was bearing down on him. The others were somewhere behind him, fighting the skeletons that issued forth from the Keep's far wing.

He was alone. Or as close as it got.

He didn't need to fight too hard, at least. He missed the sense of safety he got from wearing armor, but there was something to be said for the added freedom.

He slashed, breaking weapons too far rusted to stand up to the rigors of battle. Bones snapped under the lightest pressure.

A skeleton grabbed his arm, and he pulled away sharply, pulling the skeleton's rotten arm from its socket.

But there were still too many of them. He threatened to be swamped, to be mobbed. They pulled at him, rotten muscles bringing him down. They wouldn't need to stick a blade between his ribs if they could rip him to shreds with their bare hands.

"No," he shouted, hacking at the collection of skeletal soldiers that grabbed his trousers, that gripped his shoulders as they fell.

There was a strange roar behind him, something he'd never heard before. He cocked his arm back to smash the face of a skeleton, allowing him to see what was roaring like that.

A bear. It was a bear.

It smashed through the skeletons, came charging to Lance's side. It swept its claws back and forth to smash aside the meager resistance. Soon the skeletons that head threatened to bring him down were little more than dust on the floor.

And the bear was suddenly gone, and instead Morrigan stood before Lance.

The battle had ended with that roar, had sounded the complete obliteration of the skeleton that attacked them, had been the death knell of the Arcane Horror as flames had burned it away.

"Warden!" Morrigan said, checking him over roughly. She patted down his arms and legs, inspected his chest before urging him to spin around so that she could inspect his back. "Are you hurt? Were you injured? I am sorry that I did not think to assist you earlier."

"I'm okay," he said. "Honest."

She looked genuinely concerned, beads of sweat having formed at her brow. Her eyes were wide and her face drained of blood.

"I saw those creatures surround you. I am sincerely sorry. I will not allow that to happen again."

"Morrigan, I'm fine," said Lance. "Really."

He reached out and held her shoulders. She was cute when she was so worried. And he was suddenly glad that she was worried, that she cared so much about him to look near a breakdown. He wanted her to care so much about him.

"Warden? What is it?"

"Nothing."

Alistair let out a loud, exasperated sigh, "Can this not _wait_? We've sort of the pressing issue of a haunted castle here!"

"What was that, Alistair?" asked Morrigan, a flicker of a smile on her face. "We were not listening."

She touched his chest, leaned into him in an oh-so-ladylike manner. Her lips touched against his lightly, just enough to incense him. He was well aware that he was covered in the centuries-old detritus of a skeleton army, and they were in a room surrounded by the corpses of countless undead horrors.

It was just about as romantic as things would get.

He kissed her, hands gripping her shoulders, pulling her against him.

_Maker, what did I do to deserve her?_

There was a loud noise, like the clearing of someone's throat. Lance pulled away from her, unable to wipe the stupid smile from his face. Levi Dryden looked aghast, as though he couldn't believe the nonchalance of the Warden and his companions.

Leliana looked on, quite happy. She must have been already composing some ballad to commemorate the two.

"Not that I am one to be critical, boss," said Zevran. "But perhaps this is not the proper… venue for such a thing."

"Right," said Lance, looking at Morrigan fondly. "Absolutely. Later, then."

She gave him another smile, a small one that did little to hide her feelings.

The rest of the Keep was in no better condition. Most of the skeletons had answered the Arcane Horror's summons, and so there were only a few left wandering. It wasn't the skeletons, however, that truly disturbed Lance.

They reached the Keep's second floor, and another blast of energy hit them, causing both Alistair and Lance to fall to their knees, while the others weren't so dramatically affected.

"_Summon them now, Avernus."_

"_No! Attack the king's men! What are you doing?"_

"_Fool, mage! You dabble in the arcane, but you do not have the strength to control us! We shall kill you all!"_

Lance almost threw up. The stench of fresh blood filled his nostrils and his ears popped, the tale-tell sign of demons being summoned from the Fade.

He looked around the room. It was a mess. Bodies and arrows and fallen weapons littered the ground. Blood spatters covered the walls, browned with age. It was clear what had happened here.

The Wardens had summoned demons to bolster their numbers, but could not control them. Sophia had perished in the battle.

What were obviously summoning circles covered the far floor in a square formation, in front of a large mirrored door. It was a strange practice Lance had never heard of, but its intent was clear.

Lance took a step towards the circles, and recoiled when they reacted.

Demons were being summoned.

A large Rage Demon appeared, its body a mess of churning flames. Morrigan stepped forward, laughing.

She raised her hand, fingers outstretched. And from them a chill wind blew, ice and snow building on the floor before her, covering the demon.

He flailed in the cold, large clumps of his burning form falling to the ground and melting away. Lance watched, awed. She kept the chill going, freezing the demon solid. She looked at him, nodded.

He stepped forward, raising his sword to strike the demon. He shattered it with a single blow.

"Demons?" asked Levi, seemingly unable to comprehend. Lance tried to lay it out plain for him.

"Grey Wardens do whatever it takes to win," he said. "Even if it means blood magic."

"I just can't believe my great-great would do this. I thought my family was better than this."

Lance shrugged. "I'm sorry, Levi. But we don't get second chances."

Levi nodded, dejected.

Lance turned the door that would take them to the Warden Commander's chambers. He hoped that there they could find whatever proof Levi needed to clear his name, though it was looking less and less likely every step.

He stepped through the door.

And to his sheer horror, Sophia Dryden stood there, waiting.

"This one would speak with you, Warden," she said. Her voice most definitely was not her own. She was dead, long since. It was a demon that had possessed the corpse, had kept it from rotting entirely. She still wore the armor of the Warden Commander.

"I don't make deals with demons."

"No?" it asked. "You would be the first Warden I have met to say such things."

Lance glanced back at Levi. He didn't need to see this.

"There's nothing you could give me," he said. He took a step forward, sword ready. It raised a hand to stop him.

"Wait. I propose only a deal," she said. "Allow me to close the portal to the Fade, repair the tear in the Veil. You will have your Keep returned to you."

"And what would your price be?"

"For you to kill Avernus."

"Avernus? The blood mage of the Wardens?"

Zevran snorted. "The Grey Wardens must have one heck of a health plan."

"You'd be surprised," said Alistair. He glanced at Lance, spoke for them both. "We are so flattered that you would think to entreat us like this. But we have pressing matters to attend to and can't be bothered to let you live."

The demon opened its mouth to shout, whether to beg for a second audience or to fight, Lance would never know. Between them, there was little left of Sophia Dryden to count for much.

"I'm sorry," said Lance to Levi. "I know you didn't hope to find this."

"It is okay, Warden," said Levi. "You were helping me. I need a drink just the same."

"You know that our business here is not concluded," said Morrigan. Lance nodded, looking back at the bits and pieces of Sophia Dryden.

"Avernus. He must be in the spire."

She nodded. He whipped his sword through the air quickly, letting the chunks of the various beasts they'd encountered fly away from the blade.

Whether or not Avernus was on their side was a good question to Lance. How had the man remained alive so long? Had he been possessed, too?

It hounded Lance, and he could barely contain his desire for answers even as they entered the tower. There were papers everywhere, bits and pieces of research. A journal lay on a table next to some strange brew. Lance spent a moment to examine the latest entry.

"Ink's fresh," he said. "The guy is still writing."

He skimmed the entry, repulsed by the horror of it. The former Warden had been experimenting on people, in the hopes of unlocking the true potential of the Darkspawn blood consumed during the Joining. He must have thought that there was some power in the Taint that grew within them.

Such a blood mage thing to do.

Lance pushed open the door to the tower proper.

Avernus had been a blood mage indeed.

The room he currently occupied was filled with various implements of torture. Gibbets hung on either side of the room, now devoid of whatever occupants they might have once held. Spiked walls, no doubt used to drain subjects of blood, were a common feature of his laboratory.

Avernus himself was hunched over his research.

"Do be careful," he said. "Do not touch anything that does not belong to you."

"Avernus," Lance said, approaching the old mage. "You are one sick son of a bitch."

He turned, faced Lance. Lance was taken aback by the old mage's aged features. Whatever means he used to keep himself alive, it was obvious that he was near the end of his unnatural lifespan.

"Am I, Warden?" he asked. "Am I? I only do what I must to make sure that our mission is complete. What, I ask you, would _you_ do to stop the Darkspawn?"

Lance didn't answer. He wasn't too sure he knew himself.

"I chose to put my skills to good use. Other Wardens were content to use their Taint to merely sense the Darkspawn. But that it is just a fraction of its potential."

"What are you prattling on about?"

"I am talking about the power to fight the Darkspawn," Avernus said. He had been alone for centuries and so was eager to share his findings. "Think about it. I have found a means by which we may combat the Darkspawn. By which we can exterminate them. Isn't there no price too high for a Warden to pay if it means preventing a Blight?"

"He has a point," said Morrigan. "Such power is worth almost… anything."

She glanced at Lance, and then turned red when she saw him. Was it worth anything?

"I like your friend."

"Did you know that a Blight was underway, even now?" Lance asked. Avernus nodded grimly.

"I felt it. I was made even more determined to bring my research into fruition. Had I still the power, I would have tracked down my brethren to join the fight. Are you here for that reason?"

Lance looked at Levi, nodded to him.

"Ah, ser mage, I am Levi Dryden. I was wondering… well, is there anything that could clear my family's name?"

Avernus regarded Levi with an almost grandfatherly expression. He looked sad.

"Sophia Dryden was the best of us. I would have followed her to the death. I am sorry, Levi, but there is nothing here that can help you."

"It was worth a try," said Lance. He thought for a moment and smiled. "Perhaps I can give you a job in my court. Once I take back my Teyrnir, that is."

Levi chuckled at that. "Well I think that just might be a deal."

Avernus wrinkled his already too wrinkled brow.

"You are a Teyrn? Highever, I presume?"

"Yes," said Lance. "How did you know?"

"You have the eyes of your lineage. Your great-great distant relatives looked a lot like you. Arland was a tyrant, you see. It was why Sophia led the Wardens to rebellion. We sought aid from your family, the Couslands, yes? Arland learned of this and… you lost a great many relatives that night."

Lance didn't quite know what to say. The knowledge that Sophia hadn't desecrated the Wardens and that his own family had sided with them centuries ago meant a lot to him. It was as though he was meant to be here, a Warden and Cousland both.

"Avernus, the Veil here is torn," said Lance. Avernus nodded.

"I know. That was not my intention, though it is my doing. I would ask for your help in closing it."

"I would give it."


	38. Master Wade

Avernus had made good on his promise to close the tear in the Veil. Demons had, of course, attempted to stop them – the Fade being what it was. He had been ready for his punishment, and offered to submit to Lance's judgment without argument.

Lance couldn't kill the man. As sick and twisted as his research had been, he had a point. What would Lance give to stop the Blight? His life, if he had to, he was sure. But what if he had the power to kill all the Darkspawn? He couldn't kill Avernus.

So he ordered him to continue his research, sans live specimens. The old man had been a little disappointed that he would have to go back to older, more archaic means but took his orders regardless.

The Keep wasn't a place Lance thought the Grey Wardens needed to reclaim. Too many bad memories for the order dwelled there, and he didn't want to climb up a mountain every time he returned to their headquarters.

Instead, Lance had given the land back to the Drydens, in the hopes that they would be able to turn it into something for themselves. Levi promised to clean the place up and make it look good, and perhaps one day have a chance at being granted title. He offered to have a cousin of his store his trade goods there, with the offer of a generous discount for the Wardens. Lance had accepted, of course.

Levi sent out the missives, requesting that his family come join him in cleaning up the Keep. Lance had decided to stay for a few days, to give himself a chance to rest.

It was on their second day there, waiting for Levi's brother to join him; Alistair approached Lance, seemingly more excited than Lance had ever seen him.

"Hey," he said, charging up to where Lance sat in front of Morrigan's fire. "You know, this just occurred to me."

He reached into his pack and pulled something out. Lance looked at it, curious. It appeared to be a bundle of cloth.

"You thought of a sheet?"

"'Tis in all likelihood the only original thought he has ever had. What troubles you, Alistair, did you wet yourself again?"

"No," he said, scowling at Morrigan. "It's a souvenir I got from that dragon."

Lance stood to inspect it, and Alistair let him touch it. It was hard, thick, despite the fact that it was near paper-thin. Alistair took out a knife and poked it, not able to get the blade point to poke through.

"It's a dragon scale," he said. "I pulled off the carcass while the others were arguing about whether to move you."

"Well, gee, I guess it's great to know you care so much about my well-being."

"Oh, you know what I meant. Anyway, I got this great idea."

Lance stood for a moment, staring at the smiling Warden. When no reply was forthcoming, Lance gave a wide gesture with his hands.

"Oh, yeah. We could find someone to work with this scale, to make you a new set of armor."

"Dragonskin armor?" asked Morrigan. "Yes, that is very fitting."

"Well," said Lance, holding the folded bundle of dragonscale. "I guess we could try. Why don't you take the armor?"

"I would. I was going to, but you killed the dragon. You deserve it."

"Mother told stories of the dragon-slayers of old," said Morrigan. "She said that they used every part of their quarry to arm themselves to kill these beasts."

"So in a way, I'd be like an ancient dragon-slayer?" Lance said. He liked the sound of that. He was sure it would be an honor few Couslands could ever have hoped for. And he wanted it.

"Yes," he said. "Yeah. Let's do it."

"Where would we find an armorsmith with such… capabilities?" Morrigan asked, emphasizing "capabilities" with a wink at Lance. He felt giddy.

"Well, there's this fellow in the Denerim Market district," said Alistair. "He's supposed to be some sort of genius when it comes to this stuff. A bit of a loon, I hear."

"Couldn't be any worse than what we've already come across."

"True," said Alistair, unsubtly nodding towards Morrigan. She clucked her tongue at him and crossed her arms, leaning against Lance in a manner that expressed her victory over Alistair.

It wasn't all that unwelcome.

"Okay," said Lance. "Let's go to Denerim. Morrigan here has been dying to give it another visit, right?"

She looked at him, not wishing to show the true extent of her excitement. She had hoped to have the chance to look around the city again, and to perhaps find some magic items to toy with.

"Oh, yes, Warden. I did desire to further my experience of a true human city without a backstreet duel marring the adventure."

"A duel?" Alistair asked. "Well, there's a story there."

"Nope. No story. So, Alistair, are you coming?"

"Sure. Absolutely."

Leliana would want to come, too. Naturally Wynne and Zevran stayed behind, along with Levi who went from ecstatic to neurotic in roughly equal doses. The events at the Keep had affected him deeply, it seemed.

Denerim was but a few hours walk from the base of Soldier's Peak along the Imperial Highway. They would have enough time to do some shopping before returning in time for supper. If it got too late they could just get a room in the Gnawed Noble Tavern, something that piqued Morrigan's interest.

It was midday when they arrived at Denerim, the gates no less imposing and the towers no less tall. Morrigan again gripped Lance's hand tightly, heart racing from excitement.

"I'm starving," said Alistair. "Grey Warden thing don't you know. What about you, Lance? You want to get a bite to eat?"

Lance looked at Morrigan, who seemed quite interested in exploring the city instead.

"No, I think I'd like to see about this whole dragonskin armor thing first. You go on ahead."

"Suit yourself. But if I meet a nice girl and decide to settle down, you're on your own."

Morrigan snorted as he and Leliana left.

"Ah, so much better now that we are bereft of the fool."

"Go easy on him," Lance said. She gave him a quizzical look. "He's my friend. And yours, if you'd allow it."

"I do not require any 'friends'," she said. He shrugged.

"I suppose you think you don't. Come now, let's find this Wade fellow."

He wasn't that hard to find. He had a prominent sign over his shop, advertising his custom designed armors and his fine craftsmanship. It was all a bit… much. Regardless he seemed to be the person to talk to, so Lance entered the shop, dragonscale under one arm.

The shop wasn't much to speak of. A number of armor stands displayed sets of impressive quality, with a little more embellishment than Lance preferred, but there was little else in the shop of note. A bored looking young man stood behind the counter, examining scratches put into the wood by his own thumbnail.

"Hello?" Lance asked, unsure. The man saw him and perked right up.

"Oh, hello! I'm Herren, the proverbial front man of Master Wade's Armor Emporium Extraordinaire! How can I help you today? You look like a leather man, yes? Perhaps I can interest you in some fine leather armor?"

Lance held his hand up, forestalling the man's lengthy sales pitch.

"Look, I just want to know if you can perform some custom work for me."

"Certainly! Though Master Wade is quite busy with pending orders and might not have time to get started on yours for some months."

"I was hoping to expedite it. I've got the material I wish to use."

"Well that would speed things up. Provided you had the coin to go along with it…"

Lance nodded, patting his heavy satchel. Herren perked up quite considerably.

"What is it that you would like Master Wade to work on?"

"I was hoping he could do something with this dragonscale I have."

Harren frowned, and took on a far less interested tone.

"Dragonscale? Sure. Right after we finish making our cloud and candy armor for Lord Butter Bottom! Get the fu-"

"Herren! Did this man say what I think he said?"

"No! He said nothing! He is a pauper come to beg a donation for the Darkspawn Retirement Fund!"

"Nonsense," said Master Wade, stepping forth from his furnace and tools. He was dark-skinned from so much work with open flames and had a lilt in his voice that spoke of immeasurable joy in the man's mind. "I heard him say he has an actual dragonscale!"

"Yes," said Lance, unfurling the scale for them to see. "Right here."

"Oh, happy day! Herren, do you know what this means? I have dreamed of this day so long!"

"That's unfortunate," said Herren. "Because Master Wade has recently taken a 'no custom piece' approach to his work."

"No, Herren, not today! Ser, if you would allow me to work with such a material, I promise that I could craft for you the armor of the Ages. It would be a unique piece, guaranteed that no other would possess similar."

"How much would this cost?"

"Oh, dear Ser, I should be paying _you_ for the privilege."

Herren nearly screamed in terror. "No! That is so unnecessary. We will take coin. Perhaps-"

"No, Herren, true art costs nothing. Ah, yes, this is the culmination of many a day's toil. Ser, what would you like me to craft for you? What are your requirements?"

Lance thought for a moment. This was truly an important occasion. He'd only get one set of armor, and it would have to be special. Especially if it was for free. But what should he ask for? What could he ask for?

He liked the freedom of movement his lack of armor provided, but desired the rigid security of the scale piece he'd worn. Perhaps that was it?

"I want freedom of movement," said Lance. "To be able to maneuver my limbs without encumbrance. I leave the rest to your discretion. Is that workable?"

"My Lord," said Wade. "You have said the magic words, you powerful mage, you! Yes, just give me the scale, and I promise you will not be dissatisfied. This shall be the work of hours! Come see me later today; I will put aside all other orders for this!"

"Oh, no," Herren whispered. "Just get out of here!"

Lance did so, glad to be out of the decidedly strange atmosphere of the shop. Those two went beyond eccentric. They had the final word on strange.

When they were back in the market, Morrigan asked, "Are all artists like that?"

"Dear Maker, I hope not."

Morrigan looked quite eager to explore more of the market than they had last time, so Lance suggested they investigate the Wonders of Thedas.

"What, I wonder, would the proprietor of such an establishment consider a Wonder?"

"It's great," said Lance. "It's like if a novelty shop blew up inside a toy store."

"What?"

"Never mind."

They entered, Morrigan behaving rather cautiously. Lance was grinning from ear to ear; glad to have the time for such a shopping trip with a woman he cared for. It was almost easy to ignore the Blight coming from the south.

The man that ran the shop was a Tranquil mage. How it was he had become the owner of a magic store was beyond Lance.

Morrigan was quite amazed by the store and its inventory. She muttered to herself as they passed some item or other that caught her fancy. She touched things, as though feeling them would make them even more real. Lance wanted to show off, to tell her that everything in the store belonged to her now. But he'd rather find something real personal, something she could love him for.

He saw it then.

It was a magical staff. It was made from a smooth material, probably dragonbone, polished and brushed white. There was a glow about it, and it was cold to the touch. He was no mage, nor did he know much about magical items, but he could feel that it was powerful. Morrigan's own staff was a twisted gnarl of wood, probably taken from one of the more ancient trees that grew in the Korcari Wilds. It wouldn't be nearly on par with this.

While she was busy examining a Chasind fertility carving, Lance inquired about the staff.

"That item is called Wintersbreath," said the Tranquil. "It is one of the finest staves in all Thedas."

"Can you back that up? Some sort of satisfaction guarantee?"

"No."

"How much?"

"Eighteen sovereigns and you may take it home now."

Lance could barely contain his joy as he carefully placed eighteen gold coins on the counter. He kept glancing in Morrigan's direction, making sure she wasn't spoiling the surprise.

He approached her from behind, doing a poor job of keeping the staff hidden behind his back.

"Hey, Morrigan," he said. She was flipping through the pages of a spell book, examining its contents for anything she would like.

"Yes, Warden?"

"What would you say if I gave you a gift right now?"

She sighed. "Must you tease me always?"

"Here."

He tapped her shoulder, urging her to turn around and face him. He offered the staff, and her eyes grew wide. She took it, as though unsure about such an offering. It was unusual for her to receive so many gifts, he was sure. She still didn't know what to make of the grimoire he'd freely given her.

"What do you wish in return?" she asked, grinning wide as she looked over the staff. Lance shook his head.

"I want you to be happy."

She looked horrified, as though this was something that was so alien to her as to be repugnant. Lance worried that he'd made a mistake. What was wrong with this woman? Why couldn't she just be glad to have the gift?

"You… desire my happiness? Sincerely?"

"Is that so strange?"

"Yes. Mother always taught me that it was my own duty to find my happiness, no matter what. I… it has colored my thinking, my actions. This is _very_ strange for you – any man – to show such… kindness."

"It shouldn't be strange to you," he said. He took a step closer to her, touching her arm. "I'm going to keep doing nice things for you."

"I truly do not understand, Warden. Why?"

"Because. I love you."

She looked unsure. She took a breath, and examined the staff again.

"You love me? And that makes you want to… what?"

"I want you to be happy."

"Truly? Why?"

"Because it makes me happy."

She swallowed. She was shaking nervously. Lance touched her, held her shoulders. He looked her in the eye, trying to set her at ease.

"That's what it means to be in love," he said. "I want you to be happy for the rest of your life."

"You should not have said that, Warden."

"Why? Why do you keep _saying_ that? Why shouldn't I want you to be happy?"

"Warden," she said. Lance looked at her, expectant. She didn't say anything at first, hesitated. She swallowed, hard. It took her a moment to spit it out finally. Lance didn't exactly know what he could do to make her feel more comfortable. So he just listened.

"I need you to kill my mother."


	39. Starfang

Lance spent the rest of the day in a sort of shocked stupor. Morrigan had actually asked him to kill her mother. To killer her mother. _Her mother_. What could he make of that? What was he supposed to say?

They found a private place for her to explain her position to him. And Lance listened in the same dull state she'd left him in.

"I finished deciphering my mother's grimoire," she said. "And I found the key to her unnatural lifespan. I thought it was the demon she had communed with, but now I see that it has only kept her spirit alive."

"So how does she do it?"

"She has a daughter, one she raises as she has raised me. And then, when she is old and wizened, she uses her magic to posses her."

"Possess? You mean-"

"Yes, Warden. I was raised by Flemeth to be her next body."

"Oh, man, Morrigan. I'm so sorry."

"Do not be sorry. I am not sorry. I am angry. Flemeth… all these years… it was a lie!"

She looked hurt, especially so. She was earnestly staring up at Lance. He wanted to wipe the pain from her features, to make everything better. He wanted to steal away every ounce of pain she might ever feel in her life. He wanted, above everything else, to make her happy.

Would he slay Flemeth? It was a foregone conclusion at this point.

"Morrigan," he said. She looked up at him, hesitant. "I will do it. I will kill her. What do you need me to do?"

"I cannot return with you to her hut in the Wilds. I do not know if she would just attempt to possess me right then. You must go without me, and you must slay her. It will not keep her away forever, though. I will need her true grimoire, from within her hut."

"Okay. I can do it. I will need some time, though," he told her. She nodded.

"I would rather this done sooner than later, but there is no reason she would suspect us. She must have planned to wait until after our journey was complete."

"Wait a minute. If she needs you to stay young," he said, tapping his chin in thought. "Why would she risk sending you with me to fight the Darkspawn?"

"I do not know," she said. Her voice shook a little, and she failed to meet his eye. She focused on her shoes instead. "Perhaps she wishes me to be more powerful for when she possesses me. Perhaps it was truly as she said. The Darkspawn do pose a serious threat to even her."

There was something else working in that girl's mind, Lance could tell. She was hesitant to lay all of her mother's plots out in the open. Lance understood. And he would not press the matter.

They stayed sitting in a shaded part of the market for a while, talking a bit more. Morrigan was devastated by her mother's treachery, though she did not seem especially surprised.

"Mother always told me about the importance of power," she said. "About how vital 'twas to ensure that you were the only one standing once the dust had settled. Now I know."

She looked up at Lance, earnestly, biting her lip in honest thought.

"This is a difficult admission for me, Warden," she said. "But I know that I am not the easiest person to befriend. In truth, I have no friends."

"That's not true," Lance told her. "You have a friend."

She looked confused for a moment, as though he'd posed to her an unanswerable question. He smiled. And she beamed.

"Warden, do you mean…"

He silenced her with a kiss. And he stroked her cheek gently.

"Morrigan, I'll do anything for you."

She looked quite pleased to hear that, though it was suddenly replaced with a sort of sadness. Poor Morrigan. She was just so… tainted by her vile mother. And Lance finally had the opportunity to make things right, to give her a second chance.

They returned to Wade's, to collect his armor. It was top-notch quality, and Lance could see that for all his eccentricities, Wade was truly an artist.

"Now," said Wade, exhausted but happy. "I think it's time I went on a sabbatical. Perhaps some place warm."

Herren was rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Do you see what you've done? If you have any more scales, you can shove them-"

"Herren!"

Alistair had downed three bowls of stew in the tavern by the time they arrived. He was reluctant to go. Leliana was buying a number of fine Orlesian items from one of the merchant women, and she too didn't leave easily. But they had a trip ahead of them, and Lance was ready to kill Flemeth, for Morrigan.

It was dark when they arrived finally at camp, and Lance was ready to sleep. Morrigan didn't offer to let him share her tent this once, knowing that she had already asked for more than was her right.

If only she knew what he felt for her. If only she knew what he was willing to do. All she ever had to do was ask him, and he would do it, no matter what it was she needed done. He was hers, now and forever. And he would raze all of Thedas to the ground for her.

Killing Flemeth was just a drop in the bucket.

Mikhael Dryden, Levi's brother, arrived some time before they did. He was eager to set up his smith operation, and was very eager to return the favor Lance had granted the Drydens.

"I really don't know," Lance said. "I've not anything that needs to be mended."

Alistair spoke up, reaching again into his pack.

"What about this?" he asked, withdrawing the sky rock. "Perhaps you could do something with this?"

Mikhael took it, and his eyes lit up when he saw the ore. He turned it around in his hand, amazed. He grinned a wide, toothy grin, and he turned to his furnace.

"Do you know what this is, ser? This is Sky Metal! 'Tis a fabled resource from the gods themselves. If you would allow me, I could craft a blade worthy of a warrior such as yourself."

Lance looked at Alistair, shrugged. His blade was fine enough. He wasn't too sure he wanted something to replace it. But who was he to argue? It sounded astounding, either way.

"Okay," said Lance. Mikhael explained that there was just enough metal to construct a single blade, one that would be unlike any the world had ever known.

He set to work immediately, melting the ore down to rid it of impurities. Lance sat near Morrigan, watching her as she stirred her stew on the fire.

"What do I need to know about her? To kill her?"

"She would have you believe she is invincible," said Morrigan. "She would have you believe that there is nothing on this planet that could kill her. 'Tis a lie. She is mortal, though she is powerful. Stick that sword between her ribs and you will see how powerful the legendary 'Witch of the Wilds' truly is."

"But she is powerful."

"Yes, very. I cannot guess how she might confront you, should a battle ensue. I would assume that she would make use of her shapeshifting talents. There are many animals she can become, all of them ancient and extinct."

"Like a gryphon?"

"Perhaps."

"I'll kill her just the same."

The morning came some time later. Lance had fallen asleep next to Morrigan, after promises of protection and of love. He let her sleep.

Mikhael Dryden had worked through the night and though he was tired, he was proud of the gift he presented to Lance.

"I call this weapon Starfang. There is none other like it in the entire world," said Mikhael. He held the sword aloft with both hands, bowing as he did. Lance imagined that this was just like an old story, that he was the brave and noble dragon-slaying knight, and Mikhael was the man who would provide him the means to vanquish all evil.

"Thank you, ser Dryden," said Lance. He took the sword gingerly, held it in his sword arm to examine the balance. It was certainly a strange sword. It had a wide shape, its blade point fanning out into three barbs. It glowed that ethereal sheen the metal ore had. Lines crisscrossing the sword glowed blue like lyrium. When he listened carefully he could hear that the blade itself seemed to hum.

He slashed with it, sliced the air. It carved smooth, whistling paths through the air. It was an excellent weapon. He acquired a sheath wide enough to accept the blade from Levi. The sun was not yet over the horizon, though orange licks were already visible.

Morrigan still slept. As did the others.

He knelt over her, clad in his dragonskin armor, holding his Starfang. He gently brushed aside a strand of her hair, pushing it back behind her ear.

"I'll be back, love," he said. "For you."

And he stood. And he made to head south, to the Korcari Wilds.


	40. Flemeth's Real Grimoire

It was a two day hike straight south. Even using the Imperial Highway it was one hell of a trip. Lance didn't bother passing through any villages or towns. It would be easier on him that way.

He made camp a few times along the Highway, built a small fire to keep himself warm and slept lightly for fear of wolves.

He wondered what Morrigan would tell the others when they realized he had gone, if she would say anything. Would they come after him? He had quite the lead on them, and they would know only what Morrigan would tell them, if anything. He doubted she would fill them in.

The Korcari Wilds were overrun with Darkspawn. He could feel it, though he wasn't sure he could describe what it felt like. His teeth vibrated, for one, but other than that he just had this otherworldly _knowing_ that they were out there. And he wasn't sure if they didn't know where he was.

Alistair and Duncan had mentioned that he would be able to sense them. This must have been it.

The Wilds were overrun, but at the very least the main horde had moved on into the Southron Hills Bannorn, where they were likely terrorizing the locals. He felt bad that he couldn't save anyone there. The Arl – Arl Wulff of West Hill, if he wasn't mistaken – had probably lost most if not all of his men fighting the Darkspawn at Ostagar. Whatever he had left was just delaying the horde.

It was a sad reality. Lance had only known the stories of the Blights of Ages past, but this one was far exceeding his expectations. There were tales of the First Blight, how it had devastated Thedas for a hundred years before the formation of the Grey Wardens, and then a hundred years after that. They said that there were places in the Anderfels so far gone that frozen corpses of the First Blight's victims still remained there.

And now, there would be a great many funerals in Ferelden if he did not work fast.

That he was here fighting his love's mother as opposed to gathering the army he had been sent to get was an irony not lost on him. Maybe it was folly on his part, maybe it was destiny. Whatever it was, he was about to kill a Witch of the Wilds.

Morning light streamed through the thick, cloying canopy of tree leaves and branches. The Korcari Wilds was a deadly swampland forest, located in the vicious south of Ferelden. He had a difficult time navigating the way back to Flemeth's hut, barely able to make out the signs Morrigan had pointed out to him along the way.

He gave Ostagar a wide berth.

But inevitably he was able to backtrack his way back to the hut. And he was quite disturbed to find that Flemeth was waiting.

"Ah, so he returns," she said, her tone betraying no surprise she might have felt. He couldn't say as though he didn't expect as much.

"Flemeth. I know your secret."

"And which one would that be, I wonder? Flemeth has many secrets."

"Please. I don't care who you are, or what you've done. You might have killed an army of Templars, but that's nothing so far as I'm concerned."

"Why, then, do you come?"

"Not your concern. Just know that I've come to kill you."

"So, has lovely Morrigan finally found someone willing to dance to her tune? Such enchanting music she plays, wouldn't you say?"

She was trying to shake him, to make him doubt. It was unfortunate for her that he was sure of himself. Flemeth might have been a manipulator, and may have tried to impart the same values on Morrigan, but she was free of that now. And Lance loved her. And she loved him. And they would rid themselves of Flemeth.

She was the only thing standing in the way.

"Don't make this longer than it has to be."

She laughed.

"Do you wonder? Why Morrigan, why Flemeth? Why would I send my own _daughter_ to aid a pair of hapless Grey Wardens?"

"Shut up. Just shut the hell up. I'm here to kill you, and the longer you stand there and talk, the longer it takes me to kill you."

She sighed, seemingly defeated.

"Allow me to make you an offer, then, before we get started."

"What offer?"

"Morrigan desires my grimoire, no? It is why she sent you here to kill me. I will give it to you, freely. You will tell Morrigan I am dead. And maybe, some years from now, I will find her."

His blood boiled at that. She was asking him to sell out the woman he loved for a bloody _book_. How stupid, how greedy did she think he was? She had to die.

"No. I'm going to kill you and take that stupid book from your corpse."

"I see. Oh, well. It is a dance that old Flemeth knows well. Let's see if she still remembers the steps."

She walked, cautiously, relaxed, as though this were an everyday occurrence. She stepped onto a grassy knoll near her run-down hut, spread her arms.

"She will work for what she takes," said Flemeth. "I would have it no other way."

And there was a flash of light, just like when Morrigan used her shapeshifting powers. Lance drew Starfang, readying himself. Of course Flemeth would shapeshift to _that_.

Flemeth the Shapeshifter. Having taken the form of a High Dragon.

It roared at him, noxious breath causing him to drop to his knees. It was a perfect replica of the one he'd slain in the Frostback Mountains.

Flemeth made the first move. She roared fire at him. He lurched forward, taking cover under the lip of the knoll. Flames washed over him and burned the grassy spot where he'd been standing. Lance kept low, lifted himself up onto the knoll.

Flemeth tried to snap him up in her now-massive jaws, razor teeth eager to chew him to shreds. He rolled out of the way, jumping up and coming for her flank.

He was glad that the others weren't here. He wouldn't have to worry about them, wouldn't have to keep looking around to be sure they weren't swallowed whole by Flemeth.

She swiped at him with one razor clawed hand. Lance slashed back, caught a talon with his blade and marveled at how easily it slid through the hard dragon hide.

He dodged again, trying to keep on Flemeth's side. She was trying to tear him to pieces, to make him wish he'd never sided with her daughter. Risky move. The Darkspawn did threaten her existence as much as anyone's. With him dead, her chances of survival were slimmer.

As much as he liked Alistair, he didn't think he had the strength to go it alone.

Lance took the brief opportunity he had, slashed for her exposed side, much like he had with the High Dragon. He cut a wide slash down her belly, the sword cutting through the dragon scale with startling ease. If this was an accurate copy of a dragon, then the sword was well worth its weight in gold.

Flemeth tired of this. She desired a swift and complete end to the battle.

She slapped her wings, the force of air and the following suction causing him to collapse. He felt her paw on him, pressing him into the wet ground. The armor held, though, and kept his insides from being turned to mush. He slashed upwards, wildly trying to free himself.

He felt the sword tap against her again and again. Thick blood fell onto him in rivulets, wounds opened all over the claw. She recoiled. Lance rolled over, raised his sword above him, pointed right at the palm of her front claw as it came back down on him.

She roared in pain. He stabbed again and again.

Flemeth flapped her wings, bringing herself several feet up into the air. She was preparing to bathe him in fire, to incinerate him.

He rolled to the side, leaping from the knoll into the small pond that surrounded her hut. He splashed into the water and started swimming. He couldn't hear the whoosh of heat, nor see the orange flames that strafed the knoll, but he was sure that the water was getting warmer.

He emerged from under the pond, gasping for air. The knoll had been charred black by Flemeth.

She roared, triumphantly, circling the battleground, blood dripping in her wake.

He held Starfang close, promising the sword it would taste her flesh again. He wished he'd had it when he fought the dragon.

Before he knew what he was doing he was running headlong into the Wilds. Flemeth had the advantage of flight, and knew the Wilds far better than he could ever hope to. Chances were she could magically see him through the thick canopy.

She could.

Fire chased him, incinerating the Wilds behind him. The fire caught to several trees, though it refused to spread due to the thick mist and moisture of the swamp. It was almost too bad; a forest fire could probably have stalled the Darkspawn.

Regardless he was running as fast as he could, trying to trace the path back to the Tivinter ruins of the Wilds, where he could hide from the dragon. She breathed fire again, trying to set a blaze thick enough to corral him into one part of the Wilds.

He ran on, hoping his armor would be enough to protect him.

Branches and twigs slapped at him, scratched his face and cut through his clothing where it was visible. Blood seeped from numerous tiny cuts on his face and legs, but he ignored it. He could handle the scrapes and bruises. It was the being mauled by a not-dragon that would be bad for his long term health.

Flemeth screeched over him, and he saw a clearing in the Wilds ahead. A familiar clearing.

The smashed Tivinter dome that he and Alistair and the other recruits had come across lay ahead, green glass moss-covered and decaying. The stonework dome had sunk into the swamp, and it would be the perfect cover from the dragon. He had no real plan other than getting to the dome, and he hoped that it would work out for him.

He ran, feeling the ground begin to slope upwards. If he recalled correctly, the hill became a cliff overlooking the dome, and would be able to leap into it from there. Never mind the cuts and broken bones he would suffer.

Flemeth was on him, though, and she looked ready to incinerate him as he tried for the dome. Good.

He started to formulate a plan, to work out a plan of attack. He prayed that it would work without him dying.

Flemeth spat fire at him as he leapt for the dome, burning the wet ground behind him. He landed on his shoulder, the aged glass and moss holding up to his landing. It didn't budge. He was trapped on the dome.

Flemeth circled, roaring in delight. She must have thought him some sort of fool. Unfortunate for her.

He used Starfang to cut away a mossy vine, gave himself slack. He inched back to the edge of the sunken dome, watching as Flemeth rapidly approached. She thought he was stuck bait, that she could just scoop him up in her fanged mouth and that would be the end of it. Pity her.

He sliced the vine, allowing himself to fall back, feet firmly on the dome. Flemeth passed above him, well within reach.

He reacted, readied himself for the kill. He leapt for her, sword aimed right for her belly. The sword slid through the dragon's hide and he tore a bloody, massive gash. Entrails spilled out and Flemeth let out a gurgling, fluid-filled cry. He held onto her claw with hands and legs, gripping as tightly as he could as Flemeth began a rapid descent into the ground.

He stabbed again, and again, and again.

She fell to the ground, barely able to keep herself up. Lance clambered atop her, raised his sword over her skull and brought it down. It slid through with little more effort than it would have taken to chop wood.

Flemeth didn't cry out, didn't have time.

She slumped, dead. Acrid dragon's blood seeped out.

He rolled off of the beast, glad that he didn't have to make a thirty foot drop this time.

He picked himself up, feeling aches and pains throughout his body but feeling absolutely no worse for wear.

He went to the hut, kicked open the door. He didn't know what surprises might have waited for him, but he was taking no chances. A quick glance around told him that the hut was just as he recalled it. Empty.

A small fire burned nearby, where Flemeth cooked her marsh cuisine. A chest sat near to that, locked. Lance didn't bother looking for a key. He swiped his sword at the chest and found that the wood, however magical, was cloven in two just as easy as paper. This was truly one great sword.

The grimoire he assumed Morrigan needed to repel Flemeth sat inside, the only object Flemeth owned that was worth keeping. Curiously, it was lying on top of what appeared to be clothing, not quite unlike Morrigan's.

He assumed it was meant to be a "welcome home" gift. He took it all, stuffing it into his pack.

"You're welcome, Morrigan," he said.

He exited the hut, and began the long trip back to the camp, leaving the body of a shapeshifted Flemeth behind him.


	41. Triumphant Return

He was covered in dried blood. He was sure he'd pulled a muscle in his right arm. He performed a forced march across Ferelden. His foot hurt and was cramping. He'd just gone toe-to-toe with the infamous Witch of the Wilds, who had taken the shape of a dragon. All things considered, he was feeling pretty good.

He carried the book under one arm, or at least he'd attempted to for a few hours. He put it back in his pack, taking it out again when he returned to the camp. He timed it just right, so that he could arrive in the early predawn hours.

The camp was still asleep, except for his trusty mabari. Ajax looked excited to see him, wagging his stubby tail and letting out a few hushed barks.

"Hey, there, good boy," Lance said, scratching him behind his ears. "How ya been? I'm back. For good."

He passed by his empty tent, glancing at it just long enough to recognize that he hadn't slept in it for some time. He wanted to save weight and so had left it behind.

Morrigan lay beside her dead fire, sleeping. Lance knelt near her. He reeked of sweat and blood and so didn't want to wake her. He wanted to look as much like a returning champion as he could, and in his mind that meant being clean.

He set the book by her side, and touched her lips gently.

"I'll see you later," he whispered, smiling to himself as one who had conquered the world. He returned to his tent to remove his gear and set aside his weapon. He was once more in his traveling clothes, feeling sweaty and dirty.

He made the short trip to a nearby stream, made of melting snow running down the mountain. It was colder than Morrigan's heart, as Alistair had put it, but it served for bathing purposes.

And the young Templar appeared to already be bathing in the stream.

"Well if it isn't our fearless march-into-the-Korcari-Wilds-by-himself leader! Boy, have you a lot of explaining to do."

"Nothing to explain," said Lance. "I had business to take care of."

"Certainly. Grey Warden business no doubt."

Lance stripped off his sweaty clothes and stepped into the freezing stream. He brought his arms close to his sides and shivered. Alistair laughed at that.

"It's not so bad once you get past the whole freezing cold thing. Here, I've some soap left over."

He tossed it to Lance, who immediately set wiping away the collected blood and sweat from his hair. It made the stream run red-black for a good bit of time. The soap was little more than animal fat, but it worked better than nothing. Lance felt as though he was getting a decent bath for the first time in months. And he really was.

"So, truly," said Alistair. "You went back to kill Flemeth? Morrigan told us that you had gone to do that. I don't know how I feel about that. I mean, the woman saved our lives. But I suppose she's also responsible for Morrigan, so I can see how you'd want her dead…"

"I don't think I could explain it to you," said Lance. "Sometimes I don't really know myself."

"You can't be serious, can you? No, you couldn't be. I mean, Morrigan? _The_ Morrigan? What could you possibly see in her?"

"We have a connection," Lance admitted. Alistair still looked aghast at the prospect of any man, let alone a fellow Warden, becoming infatuated with… _that_. "She has her merits."

"Besides the fact that she's a complete bitch?"

Lance felt himself scowl at Alistair. "I'd prefer you not talk about her like that in my presence."

"Oh. Right. No harm intended. It's just… she's not exactly easy to get along with."

"No, she isn't. That's why it's all the sweeter when I can get along with her."

"I'm sure."

Lance took a breath, dipped his head under water to shake out the flakes of dried blood and the salty sweat. It wasn't so cold anymore and actually felt rather nice.

When he emerged, Alistair was leaving the stream and shaking the water out of his hair.

"Where off to next?" he asked. Lance spat water from his mouth as he considered their options. All that was left to handle was the Dwarves in Orzammar and the Elves somewhere along the Brecilian Forest. And then Loghain, provided they made it that far.

"How about a trip to the mountains?" he asked. Alistair laughed.

"Again? And here I was looking forward to a woodsy vista."

"We all have to make do."

Alistair gathered his clothes, dressing just enough to maintain his modesty, and headed back for the camp. He was chuckling lightly to himself as he went.

Lance was left alone, and he found himself glad for it. He relaxed, feeling the aches and pains of their journey disappear now that he had a moment of quiet contemplation. They could relax for the rest of the day, plan out their trip to Orzammar. He would regale them with the tale of Flemeth's defeat, something Leliana would no doubt wish to hear. Maybe he would get the chance to hear something tender from Morrigan for a change.

She owed him as much.

There was a loud splash in the water nearby, bringing Lance back into the here and now. He looked around him, trying to figure out who had joined him in the water.

"You decide to get_ all_ your bathing for the month done ahead of time?" he asked, assuming that it was Alistair. It could very well have been Leliana, he realized, come to get a peek at him and perhaps some romance, if she hadn't entirely given up on that.

He assumed that was a little less than likely; her preferences tended to lean closer to women, he realized, and he didn't think himself all that astounding as to have her swooning all over him.

He could feel someone swimming around him, just below the surface. He couldn't tell who, though he had a solid guess.

His bathing companion surfaced behind him, putting her arms around his body.

She kissed him behind the ear.

"My Warden has returned to me," she said, triumphant. "I was almost afraid that I had sent you to your certain death."

"Takes a lot to kill me," said Lance, turning in the water to face Morrigan. She was nude, though her wet hair covered her breasts in as modest a fashion as possible.

"So I see. And you brought the most pleasing of gifts."

He pulled her against him, playfully. He kissed her cheek, and then her lips, all the while grinning victoriously.

"I said I'd do it. I did it."

"I know. Might I ask why?"

"You asked me to."

"I know. But you did not have to. You had no promise of reward. You fought what must have been a most terrible battle. And I wish to know why."

"I told you. You asked me to. And I thought it would make you happy."

She looked at him, genuinely confused. It was a strange way to see her. Here she was, naked in all her womanly splendor – which was quite considerable – and yet so… childlike. So innocent, vulnerable. She was not the same bold, confident woman he'd come to know. She was really a child. A young, vulnerable, fallible, needy child.

And he realized that he loved her because of that. Because she only let _him_ know that. Whether or not she realized. She trusted him more than any other person on the planet.

And he could fix her.

"Is this love?" she asked.

"Yes. It's love."

She pushed away from him, made to leave. He reached out, caught her wrist as she was exiting the stream. He averted his eyes from her body, not wanting to spoil it.

"Morrigan," he said. "I… I will always protect you."

Her eyes widened, and her cheeks became flushed. She stuttered, looking quite flustered. Lance found that he liked to see that.

"You should not say such things," she said, looking left and right for some excuse to leave right then. "You have no idea what might happen in the coming days to- the Darkspawn will surely…"

He smiled, feeling as though he'd finally done it. He'd finally gotten that major victory. Flemeth was dead, and he loved her, and this was finally it. She looked at him earnestly, and he felt that sizzle of passion between them that he had so long sought.

"I thank you, Warden, for the intent."

"You are welcome."

She glanced back at him, one last time, before gathering up her clothes and leaving him.


	42. Confession

They would be in Orzammar by the end of the week, provided the mountain weather was cooperative. Already snow was falling in the south. He thought of the Korcari Wilds, frozen and snow-covered. Flemeth's body rotting in the freeze. The hut collapsing from the weight of so much frost.

They spent the remainder of the day relaxing, getting in that very last bit of rest before they plunged headlong back into battle. They deserved it.

He was on watch that evening, up late. Leliana sat up with him, telling him all sorts of stories from Orlais and ancient Ferelden. He liked to listen to her tales, and have her talk at length about her childhood. She sometimes prodded him for stories, for tales of his own childhood. Though those tales were few and far between.

The camp was far behind him, the dying light of the cooking fire the only guidepost. Lance held Starfang in his lap, looking out through the darkness for any sign of intruders. An assassin or crafty Darkspawn could easily have snuck up on them, but it felt safer nonetheless.

"Do you… still remember?" she asked him. Lance looked at her funny.

"Remember what?"

"Your parents. And the night…"

"Oh. That. Yes, I remember. I couldn't forget it."

"Oh."

"Why do you ask?"

"Because I still remember the night Marjolaine betrayed me."

Lance nodded in the dark, a tense understanding between them. You never forget a betrayal; never forget how keenly you feel it. The image was burned into his mind, forever. His father, bleeding on the floor. His mother begging him to leave. Marna, dead on the ground.

He stroked Starfang in the pitch black, moonless night. He thought about Rendon Howe, about the joy he would feel when he finally got the chance to rend his head from his body. Leliana reached out, took his hand.

"The Maker wants us to forgive."

"Did you?"

"No," Leliana looked away, out into the darkness. She held her bow, and she lightly plucked the bowstring. "If someone betrays you, they should always wake expecting your blade."

"Never a truer sentiment was spoken."

They were quiet for a long time, both caught up in their own thoughts and memories. The crescent moon was high in the nighttime sky before they spoke again.

"It's time," said Lance. "Alistair and Wynne are on watch now."

"You go on to bed," she said. "I want to stay up a little longer. I'll wake them."

Lance nodded to her and stood, heading back to his tent. He wasn't very tired and imagined that he'd stay up, thinking. The campfire was just a few licks of flame now, red embers keeping the wood alight. He supposed it was just enough to stay up by, to see his tent's canvas walls and think about all he'd lost. And even what he'd gained.

He looked over towards Morrigan's tent, where her fire burned brightly. She wasn't there. He glanced around, noting that she wasn't in camp at all. She had probably absconded to the woods, to feel more at home. Maybe she was reading the grimoire, or maybe she was lamenting her mother's death. Sometimes she was just impossible to read.

He kneeled to open his tent, setting his sword inside and pausing before entering to take off his armor. He felt stiff, still. It was a weird feeling, and he sometimes wondered if was ever going to be rid it. He hadn't had too much introduction to magic, the Circle being as private as it was, and so being healed by Morrigan on his deathbed was the most attention he'd ever had from the Fade.

Perhaps his muscles hadn't been healed so much as replaced? Maybe the stiffness he felt was from the artificial flesh. Regardless, he was better now. And he didn't want that to ever happen again.

He kicked off his boots last, freeing himself from the suffocating feeling of being fully armored and lugging around various implements of death. It was times like these that he really lamented what had happened to him.

He couldn't shake the feeling that this was his life now. That forever he would be wandering the world, armed and armored, fighting until he was dead or there was nothing left to fight. Alistair had filled him on the fact that he only had thirty years left to live. It had come as quite the blow, though he soon came to terms with the sheer lack of finality of it.

Thirty years was a long time. Who was to say that he'd make it all the way to fifty? The part that had really gotten to him, though, was the thought of leaving for his Calling. To stroll into the Deep Roads, killing Darkspawn until they overwhelmed him. It wasn't exactly the sort of death he had hoped for.

"Warden?" Morrigan asked, suddenly behind him. He realized that he had sort of stood there in his socks, staring at his tent while he thought. He turned to face her, a little embarrassed that he'd managed to daze off while just standing.

"Yes, Morrigan?" he asked, clearing his throat to appear as though he'd been busy. She looked serious, something he wished she weren't, though he was more than happy to seriously converse with her.

"I…" she hesitated. He wondered what it was that was plaguing her and must have looked concerned. She bit her lip in thought. "I wish for you to describe 'love' to me."

He cocked his head, confused. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I want to know this emotion you claim to feel for me. I wish to know what 'tis you call 'love'."

His first instinct was to ask her why she desired to know. But he decided that the better thing to do would be to answer her. It was always smarter to do that.

"I wake up every morning and I'm afraid that I won't see you soon enough. My last thought every night is that I won't get to see you again until I wake. Not a minute goes by that I don't try to get some glimpse of you, that I don't think of you. I desire you, with every ounce of my being. And more than that, I want you to be as incredibly happy as I can possibly make you."

She looked at him, uncertain. Her lip quivered as she tried to speak. There was some emotion on her face that Lance couldn't place. Was it fear?

"Warden… release me," she begged. She reached out, took his hand in hers and implored him. "Tell me that you do not love me, that you do not desire me. Tell me that you only desire to conclude our business and that you will never see me again once we are finished."

He choked, unable to believe what she had just said. He shook his head numbly, scarcely able to believe what he'd just heard.

"I can't," he said, hardly able to even utter that much. His voice was hoarse, scratchy. It threatened to cut his throat and to bleed him dry. He wanted to say more, pleaded with himself to speak. Nothing came of it.

"Warden, please," she whispered. He thought he saw tears, but he couldn't be sure in the dim light. "You will regret this if you do not."

"Morrigan, I _can't_."

"You miserable, selfish bastard. You _have to._"

He turned from her, looked at the dying campfire.

"I can't," he said again, stomping a burnt log into ash. He spun around, faced her. "Morrigan, why are you asking me this?"

"We have been close for some time. I… feel the same," she whispered. "I do not like it. This desire, this dependency, 'tis weakness that will eat me alive."

"You… you love me?"

She didn't answer, simply looked up at him through narrowed eyes. She reached up, casually wiped at her eyes as though nothing were wrong with her, smearing the strange Chasind eye color she wore.

"Please. Let me go."

He stared at her, at a complete loss for words. It was the first time in his memory he'd been in such a state, the first time he'd ever not known what to say. He gawked, realized what this meant. This was the culmination of everything he'd ever hoped for. This was what he wanted, more than anything.

"Morrigan," he said, a flicker of a smile on his lips. "You are completely _insane!_"

She scowled, and then her features softened. She looked like an honest woman, for the first time in their history together. He fought his every fiber, fought the unquenchable urge to take her in his arms. He fought the urge to break down in tears, to scream her name at the top of his lungs. He was shaking, he realized, but he was not ashamed.

"If I am," she said, rhythmic voice suddenly breaking. "'Tis because _you_ make me so."

He gasped.

"Morrigan," he whispered, and he allowed himself to reach out to her, to touch her cheek, to run his fingers through her hair and to allow himself to be grabbed by her, held. "I love you."

She pulled him in close, arms around him, hands squeezing him tight as if she feared that he wasn't real, that she was only dreaming. In truth, it was more likely that _he_ was dreaming. And he was suddenly overcome with the fear that he would be jostled awake.

"You protected me from Flemeth. You cared for me even as I pushed you away. You gave up the girl – Leliana – for me. And you do not lie when you tell me that you love me."

He held her, kissed her head gently.

"I would do it all again," he said. He gave her a slight push; just enough to give him space to talk. "Morrigan, everything that's happened to me, _everything_… It was worth it. All of it, because it led me to you. The most horrible thing in my life led me to the greatest."

She reached up, cupped his cheeks in her hands. He thought she would warn him against such a declaration, as she always had. She didn't. She wet her lips, thoughtful. She glanced back at the tents, making sure that they were alone when she spoke.

"When I first saw you in the Wilds, I followed you in animal form for a great length of time. I watched you, examined your movements. You were the better of your companions, far more capable. Mother sent me to find Grey Wardens, to lure them back to her hut."

She swallowed, the words getting stuck in her throat even as she spoke them. She closed her eyes, blinked away whatever it was that kept her from speaking. He held her wrists loosely, just enough to reassure her.

"I am glad that I was born to Flemeth, that I lived the whole of my life in the Korcari Wilds, that I never turned my back to it. Because if I had, I would never have found you."

Lance felt his heart jump into his throat. It took every ounce of his will to not kiss her then, to not hold her to him. She touched his lips gently, taking another breath.

"I have finally found something in those Wilds worth keeping."

She stepped away from him, turning her back on him.

"'Tis weakness," she said. "Mother would have it beaten out of me. I like this weakness. That is not right, it is not normal. Warden, I am not like other women. You will regret me, I promise. I know it. Please, for your own sake let me free. Tell me you do not love me and leave me."

He swallowed. He shook his head dumbly, unable to find the words.

"I cannot let you go," he said. "I cannot. Do not ask this of me. I… am yours."

"Truly? This is what you want from me? To only feel heartache in the end?"

"I would rather die than never love you."

She didn't say anything at that. Her body quivered for only a moment. She took a breath, mind racing to formulate words.

"I will go to bed then," she said and took a step towards her tent. Lance nodded, unable to do anything else. Tonight's victory was enough. She loved him, though she was unable to say it. She was in love with him. His chest swelled.

He turned to his tent, knowing that he wouldn't be able to sleep a wink.

"Warden. Lance."

He turned; saw that she was smiling at him, mischief in her eyes.

"'Tis quite cold in my tent, all alone."

He couldn't suppress the grin that spread across his face, couldn't keep his heart steady, couldn't breathe evenly. He spoke, the words sounding broken to him, disjointed.

"What would you like me to do about it?"

"It just so happens that I find you to be quite warm."

He felt his face go warm, felt himself starting to sweat. He took a step towards her, trying to keep his mouth from going completely dry.

And then he stopped, hesitating.

"Morrigan, I don't want a one-time affair," he said, worrying that he ruined his one opportunity to show her how much he loved her, to be loved by her. She only smiled wider, extending her hand to him.

"Nor do I."

He took her hand.

The fire near her tent still burned brightly, though it dimmed as they neared. Lance could just make out Morrigan's wonderful lithe body.

She led him to the shade of her tent, under the furs she used to create a roof for herself. Her bedroll lay atop similar furs, taken from wolves and foxes and other animals Lance couldn't begin to fathom. They were warm, despite Morrigan's assertions to the contrary.

She kissed him, tongue exploring. It was passionate, full of pent-up emotion. She lay back on her bedroll, even as they kissed, reaching up, grabbing him, running her hands along the back of his neck. He could hardly contain himself.

It was the most romantic, most sensual moment of his life.

And she quietly realized that it was the _only _romantic, sensual experience she'd ever had with a man. And that he was taking great care to please her. And she suddenly felt stronger emotion for him than she could ever have imagined possible.

He placed his hand awkwardly at her hip, using the other for balance. He broke the kiss, just long enough to ask her a last-minute question, one that was eating away at the back of his mind.

"Uh, Morrigan?"

"Hm?"

"What– uh… What do you like?"

She looked up at him, honestly confused and curious.

"What do I like?" she asked, forehead wrinkled. She shook her head, unable to comprehend. He swallowed, visibly nervous.

"Yeah. I mean, you know. What do you want me to do?"

"You wish to know what _I_ desire?"

"Yes," he said, now suddenly embarrassed. She saw this, realized his intent, and she too went red.

"You wish for my pleasure?"

He nodded.

"Oh, Warden!"

And she pulled him into another kiss, just as passionate, just as hungry as their first. Her hands slid over him, touching every part of him she could. And he did the same, eager to know her.

And they made love.

It was honest, earnest, and sincere. It was full of desire and need. It was passionate and it was frantic and it was calm. It was everything either of them could have hoped for, and all either of them could have wanted.

They were eager and restless, apprehensive and patient.

Leliana was returning from her watch duties, headed to rouse Alistair from his slumber. She heard a noise from the direction of Morrigan's tent, and could just barely make out a pair of shadowy forms. She at first thought that the Witch was up to her usual mischief, but then her eyes adjusted to the fading light of the campfires. She saw Morrigan lying on her back, and Lance kissing his way across her bare stomach to her-

Oh!

Leliana giggled quietly to herself, smiling boldly. She decided that they didn't need a watch that evening, and went to her tent, glad that her new friends had finally found comfort in each other's arms.

Lance learned things about her that he never could have guessed at. And she gleaned from him insight that she could not have comprehended otherwise.

Lance was close to her, closer to her than any woman he'd ever known. She burned with desire for him, and he for her. She whispered his name, turning it into a mantra that grew in volume.

He held her tightly to him, moaned her name in return. They watched each other for the longest time, gauging one another's reaction, learning what the other sought in a lover.

Morrigan reached up behind her, fingers working quickly to let her hair free.

She was more beautiful than he could believe was possible. And every second he feared realizing that she was not real, that he was just dreaming again. But the Maker, if He existed, was kind this once.

He placed kisses across her flushed chest, and she scratched his back much like an animal. She thrashed, gripping the blankets they had decided to discard, favoring the cold air and each other's warmth, and she cried out.

She breathed a sigh of relief, one hand going to wipe away beaded sweat from her forehead.

"That was… well worth the wait," she whispered, putting one finger to his temple and having a small laugh to herself. "I am glad that we waited. This fruit was all the sweeter for it."

"Uh, Morrigan?"

"Yes, my Warden?"

"I, um. I didn't finish."

Her eyes grew wide, as did the smile on her lips. She gently pushed his shoulders, so that he lay on his back.

"We cannot have that," she said. And soon he was writhing beneath her.

They made love three more times before finally laying down to sleep, knowing that they had mere hours before they would be on the road to Orzammar, yawning and looking coy at each other, amidst the knowing glances and Alistair's disgusted sighs.

He thought of Marna, even as he lay with one arm around Morrigan's waist, face buried in her jasmine-scented hair.

She was dead. But it was okay.


	43. Young Lovers

"_I see the tales of Grey Warden endurance were not exaggerated."_

They were on the trail now, headed to Orzammar. They had been walking for nearly four hours now. And though Lance found himself - and Morrigan – yawning and stretching constantly, he was not at all tired. In fact, every time he caught Morrigan's gaze, and they smiled to themselves, he felt better than he ever had in his life. All the aches and pains of months of travel disappeared.

And he found himself looking at Morrigan, smiling in his own dumb way, quite often. And was pleased to see that she was doing the same.

Leliana hummed and giggled the whole trip, and Lance had the suspicion that she knew. And he was somehow okay with that, as if it made it all the sweeter. As if it was more satisfying that way.

He shifted the weight of his pack on his shoulder, thinking again about his night with Morrigan, about her amazing body, and the look on her face when she whispered his name in the dark.

And their conversation that morning, the coy way she built herself up and said, with that longing glint in her eye, "I only wish to do what _I_ desire. And if that happens to coincide with what _you_ desire, then so be it."

And of course she knew very well what he desired, just as he knew what she desired. And they desired each other, more than anything else. Lance was already envisioning it. They would end this Blight, become heroes for it, and he would spend what time he had left with her. Grey Warden or no, he was not letting her pass away from him without a fight. They would have to drag him kicking and screaming.

She whistled a tune, soft. It was startling at first, and Lance felt himself just as surprised as Wynne and Alistair. Zevran, being _Zevran_, had caught on pretty quick.

"So, boss," he said, quietly so to keep their discussion private. "I take it that this is the morning of victory?"

"What?" Lance asked, pretending not to know what the Elf was talking about.

"Oh, don't give me that," said Zevran, nudging him lightly. "Old Zev has an eye for these things. A skill of the trade, if you will. I see things."

"I'm sure; Elves have sharp eyes."

"Hm. Go ahead. Play dumb. Just know that I know."

Zevran took a couple of steps backwards, so that he was walking behind him. Where Morrigan would normally have affixed a watchful eye on the assassin, she instead glanced over at Lance, and stopped whistling to suppress a laugh.

He found himself smiling, and chuckling lightly.

Leliana was quickly between them, asking Morrigan some rather unsubtle questions.

"Morrigan, you are glowing."

"Am I? Perhaps I am just working over one of mother's secret spells."

"No, I think this is a different glow. It is nice to see you two together."

Morrigan let out an exasperated sigh, but the smile did not disappear from her face.

"Is this more of your insipidness?" she asked. Leliana shrugged, unfazed and still completely happy.

"You can't possibly believe that the rest of us haven't noticed," she said. She leaned in to whisper to Morrigan, "You are not gifted in subtlety."

"The Warden and I have naught but a professional relationship," she said. Leliana snorted, laughing at Morrigan's demeanor.

"And this is why he rushes off to save you? Because of your 'professional relationship'? Really, Morrigan, do not think us so dense."

"Are you not? My apologies. However, the Warden was only doing a personal favor for me, because he realizes how important I am to this mission."

"I'm sure. And last night the Warden was just performing a professional courtesy for you."

Morrigan smiled even wider, eyes gleaming, and she looked at the Warden fondly.

"Yes," she said. "Most vigorously."

He looked over at her, having pretended not to hear. And he found himself overcome with affection for her, and he reached out to touch her hand, subtly. She let her arm brush against his and she took on a flush.

"See, Morrigan?" Leliana said. "I know you are glad of it."

She didn't reply simply continued walking, glancing over at her brave Warden, _her_ Warden.

And this continued for the duration of the journey to Orzammar. The trip took three nights on the road, and each night Morrigan had found some convenient excuse to visit Lance in his tent. If it wasn't to "discuss important matters" then it was to "see to his health". It was all very transparent, of course, so about the time they were absconding to the woods to do some "scouting" everyone in the group knew about their relationship.

Alistair spent several evenings frowning to himself, waiting for the two to return as he stirred a bowl full of his disgusting stew.

"Honestly, what does someone like _him_ want with someone like _her_?" he asked. Leliana shrugged, gagging on a mouthful of potato. Wynne listened, disinterestedly, and she too seemed at least a bit curious as to why the Warden would choose to spend so much of his time and energy on such a woman.

"Love is blind," said Leliana. "I'm sure he knows her better than any of us. Maybe she has some more endearing qualities?"

"All I know is she's the most vile, putrid, rancid bitch of a woman I've ever met," said Alistair. He set aside his bowl, unable to eat it. "Besides, he's a Grey Warden. We sort of have more important things to do than make kissy-faces in the forest."

"Indeed we do," said Wynne. "But, perhaps, this is a good thing."

Alistair shrugged, making a face.

"Think about it. She's maleficar, and rotten to the core. There's no way that their… union could be good for him."

"That has occurred to me," said Wynne. "But look at it the other way; perhaps he'll be a good influence on her?"

"Oh, why can't you two be more judgmental? Mark my words; nothing good will come of this."

"None of us know her, Alistair," said Leliana. "Not so well as he, anyway."

"Yes, but in the time we have known her, has there been anything about her worth liking? Just the thought of those two… laying together makes me nauseous. I know I'm not the only one, am I, Wynne?"

"I try not to think about them having relations."

"That's not what I meant."

Leliana grinned to herself and said, "Maybe he likes her shrieking? She sounds like a genlock being murdered. Grey Wardens like that, don't they?"

Alistair shuddered.

"I wouldn't mind not having to listen to her 'shrieking'."

"She is a loud one, isn't she?"

Wynne scoffed at them.

"Have you two nothing better to do than gossip? I, for one, would rather not pay attention to anything regarding their love life, and would thank you both to do the same."

She stood up, and she went to her tent, turning in early. Secretly, she was worried about the consequences of such a relationship, if only for Lance's sake. He was young, and in love. She had been like him, once upon a time. She worried that he would let his love cloud his better judgment.

Lance and Morrigan returned from their "scouting", Lance smiling to himself, struggling to keep his eyes open. Morrigan had one arm around him, and she too smiled in her own devious way.

"The woods seem to be safe, for the moment," said Morrigan. Lance nodded, and smiled wider as he glanced over at her.

"Very safe."

Leliana giggled to herself again and said, "Perhaps you scared away our enemies?"

Alistair snorted. "Sent them home sick more like."

"What was that, Alistair?" asked Morrigan, urging Lance to kiss her. "I could not hear you."

Alistair pretended to gag, and he threw aside his stew.

"Well, I suppose _I_ won't be getting any sleep tonight," he said, leaving to go to his tent.

"You are not the only one, Alistair," said Morrigan, leaning fondly against Lance. Sometimes he got the feeling she liked teasing Alistair more than she liked him. As of late, the insults to his intelligence had disappeared and were instead replaced by subtle references to her relationship to his fellow Warden.

Not that Lance had a problem with it.

Of course, she had also included subtle barbs directed at Leliana, Morrigan having perceived a victory over the girl. Lance wished that she'd lay off of that.

"Warden," said Morrigan, turning to enter his tent. "I believe the other evening you performed a very particular service for me," she turned to Leliana and added, "with his _tongue_. I would like a… repeat performance."

She turned on her heel and entered his tent, calling out that she would be waiting in breathless anticipation for him. Lance looked at Leliana, red-faced.

"I, uh, should probably go take care of… that."

She looked up at him, entirely unaffected by Morrigan's lack of tact. Or etiquette. Or really any manners whatsoever.

"It is good to hear that you are a gentleman," she said. She stood to go to her own bed. "Just remember that when it comes to 'that', less is more."

He felt himself go warm in the face as she walked away, suddenly more embarrassed than he could recall having been in his life. And then he started to laugh.

"Maker, I love this woman."

He went to his tent, licking his lips in anticipation as he reached for the flap. And he was stopped by Wynne, who desired a private conversation.

"Warden, if I may?" she asked, emerging from her own tent. Lance made a noise of irritation; a canvas sheet separating him from Morrigan's waiting form.

"Yes, Wynne?" he asked, approaching her. He shifted awkwardly, glancing over his shoulder at the tent.

"You're quite taken with each other, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes," he said, again glancing at his tent and the woman waiting within. "Quite."

"Do you realize the dangers of such a relationship?"

Lance rolled his eyes. "Forgive me, Wynne, but I fail to see how our relationship should concern you. Am I aware that she's an apostate? Yes. Am I aware that by and large she cares for nothing but herself? Yes. But there's so much about her that you don't know. There's so much about her that I love."

"Perhaps. I do not know her, you are right in this. I do know that as a Grey Warden there may come a day where you will have to choose between her and your mission. I would rather you not have to make that choice."

"As would I," said Lance, again looking anxiously over his shoulder. He looked at Wynne quite squarely. "Are you asking me to give up on her?"

"I am asking you to consider whether this relationship is good for you. Both of you."

Lance shook his head, giving a wry laugh to keep himself from fuming.

"I've been given nothing but _shit_ from this world," he said. "And all that's left for me is to be a Grey Warden. I will do my duty. But I will not let Morrigan go. I can't."

Wynne nodded to him, narrowing her eyes.

"Very well. Forget I said anything, then. I just wish you well."

Lance wanted to say more to her, to apologize or to really rip into her. But Morrigan called to him from the tent.

"Grey Warden! I can only entertain myself for so long!"

Lance went red again. He looked at Wynne sheepishly.

"I should, uh, go see to… that."

He turned and made for his tent, disappearing inside with a mischievous grin. There was laughter, and whispered, breathy words from within.

Wynne sighed to herself. "Such childish antics."

And as she returned to her tent, she allowed herself only the slightest of smiles.


	44. Orzammar

"Ah, Orzammar!" Alistair declared. "Smells like vomit!"

"No," said Lance, scowling at his friend. "It smells like rancid sweat. Vomit is thicker."

"It's like a little city," Leliana declared as they approached the various surface Dwarves and tradesmen outside of Orzammar's main gate. They left the corpses of a half-dozen bounty hunters on the mountain pass. They were wanted men… and women.

They approached the main gate, and Alistair whispered to Lance that it was sealed.

"Is that unusual?" he asked. Alistair nodded.

Three men were standing at the gate, arguing with one of the gate guards.

"King Loghain will not stand for this! As his personal messenger I demand an audience with your Lords or Deshyrs or whatever you call them in your Assembly."

"_Veata_! There will be no entry to Orzammar!"

"I am the King's messenger!"

"I don't care if you're his personal wiper. No one is getting into Orzammar."

Lance approached the guard, putting on his most personable demeanor. He waved for his companions to remain quiet, especially Morrigan. As much as he loved her, she was about as diplomatic as a Hurlock.

"I need to see your King immediately," said Lance. "I have important business in Orzammar."

The Dwarf shook his head.

Loghain's messenger, a man that Lance had decided could best be described as an insufferable prick, spoke up, "Who doesn't? But if anyone's getting in, it had better be me."

"I am a Grey Warden," said Lance, producing the treaties for the Dwarf guard. "This treaty obliges Orzammar to aid us in fighting the Blight."

The Dwarf looked over the treaties, and handed them back.

"They bear the royal seal. You may enter, Warden. But know that the Dwarves cannot provide the assistance you seek; King Aeducan has returned to the stone."

"What?" the messenger shouted. "This… _stain_ on Ferelden killed our good King Cailan and has caused an uprising in Ferelden nobility! I demand that you kill him immediately."

"We can go right now," said Lance, reaching casually for Starfang. "Really. If you'd like."

The messenger glanced back at his companions, one of them a mage. The mage leaned forward whispering something to the messenger, indicating both Wynne and Morrigan as well as Alistair. Zevran had already moved to the opposing group's rear, having escaped all notice.

"Ah," the messenger said, clearing his throat. "I will return to Denerim! At once! Do not think you have escaped, Grey Warden. You will find justice, eventually."

"Thank you, Warden," said the gate guard when the messenger and his party had left. "That man had been barking for days now. Are all surfacers so touched? Regardless, you may enter."

He stepped aside, allowing the group passage to Orzammar proper.

Lance, being the avid reader he was, had heard tales of the majesty of the Dwarven kingdom, and of their once great empire. Now, he found himself wondering if any of those authors had even seen Orzammar. The real thing was simply too incredible to put into words.

They were in what was called the Hall of Heroes. The room was carved from the mountain, and lit with numerous braziers that hung from the ceiling. The Hall served as a showcase for the countless Paragon statues, each ten feet tall and carved from some unknown stone substance.

"Sweet Andraste's toenail clippings," Alistair muttered. Lance could only nod.

"Well, if there's anything complimentary to be said about these short people, 'tis that they possess a remarkable faculty for carving stone," said Morrigan, looking around, visibly hiding her awe. Lance looked over at her, glad that she was even once cowed by something visual.

She of course turned from awe to fright as she looked up at the stone ceiling.

"But the thought of some much rock over one's head is… disquieting."

"Don't worry," said Lance, reaching over to take her hand. She looked at him, smirking. She shook her head.

"I am not worried. I am only unused to the concept of going underground."

"As am I," said Lance. "And I'm worried."

She laughed, eliciting a hacking noise from Alistair.

"Let us be off," he said. "We wouldn't want to become glued to the floor."

They walked through the Hall, each awed by the magnificence of the Dwarven mastery over rock.

The big stone doors that lead into Orzammar proper were opened for them by a pair of sweaty guards. They shoved them, moving them out of the way and providing the opening to the Commons Area. Lance led the way.

"Well, this is… staggering," said Lance, staring up at the city that spread through the mountain's center. He could hardly believe it. Stone buildings that stretched from the very darkest depths of the magma-choked mountain floor to the highest point. Bustling Dwarves, hurrying about their day-to-day business.

"Wow," Morrigan whispered. Lance nodded.

"Sure is something."

"How dare you besmirch the name of our rightful king, Prince Bhelen!"

Lance looked in the direction of the shout, immediately assuming a fighting stance. The irate Dwarf swung his axe, embedding it in the chest of another Dwarf. A guard approached and shooed them off, ordering them to their respective estates in the Diamond Quarter.

Lance stared, shocked that there would be outright fighting in the streets of Orzammar. Apparently Dwarven politics were as cutthroat as one could get. And then some.

"I will not have fighting in front of outsiders!" shouted the guard captain. He approached the group. "You there! You are Grey Wardens, yes? No surfacer comes to Orzammar unless it is a Warden on his Calling."

"We are Wardens, yes," said Alistair, indicating himself and Lance. "But we are not on our Callings. We are here to seek aid against the Blight."

"Good luck with that," said the captain. "Without a king we've no one with the authority to order our armies."

"I heard that King Aeducan passed on. Isn't there anyway I can get Dwarven support?" asked Lance. The captain shrugged.

"Short of performing a coup of the Assembly? I doubt it. The Deshyrs are deadlocked."

"You vote your kings in?" asked Alistair. "What kind of crazy system of monarchy is that?"

"How has letting your king's spawn take the throne worked for you?"

"Good point."

Lance waved his hand, a little frustrated that they'd gone way out of their way to visit the Dwarves just to discover that it had been a complete waste of time.

"Why are they deadlocked? Who's running?"

"Currently the biggest contenders are Prince Bhelen Aeducan and Lord Pyral Harrowmont. Give it a week and it'll be a new pair."

"Why can't the Assembly decide?"

"Huh. You _must_ be new to politics. With all their backroom deals and fanatics, both Bhelen and Harrowmont have the Assembly split on votes. There's no one left to bribe that hasn't been already."

"What about merit? Surely one has more than the other."

"What does that matter? One's just as good as the other, as far as most Dwarves are concerned."

"So the only way I can get the army moving is if I get the Assembly to pick a king?"

"Well when you put it that way you make it all sound like a glorified fetch quest," said the captain, crossing his arms with an angry look. Lance rubbed the bridge of his nose to stave off a headache.

"Well… do they have political platforms?"

"Political what?"

"What are they running for? Does one promise one thing, and the other another? What are their stances on the issues?"

"Bhelen is a reformer," said the captain, thinking. "He's lost some popularity because of it. He was King Aeducan's least favorite. Harrowmont insists that Endrin wanted him on the throne, not his son."

"What sort of reforms does Bhelen want?"

"He wants to abolish the caste system, for one," said the captain. He scowled as he spoke. "He wants to give the Dusters a chance for 'vertical advancement' as he puts it."

"Dusters?"

"Casteless. Do you surfacers not have castes? These people are lower than the dust they sit in."

"I see," said Lance. He glances over at Alistair who rolled his eyes. Lance had been in politics enough – still too much for his blood – to understand prejudice. Stuffy nobles born far removed from the plight of the underclass often lost touch with what made them nobility in the first place. It was the same with the Elves in human society. Lance had never been to an Alienage, but Marna's stories made it sound awful.

If these "Dusters" were anything similar to the Elves, then Lance knew who he was supporting.

"Where can I find him?" he asked. The captain gave him a strange look.

"In the Royal Palace in the Diamond Quarter, of course."

"Then that's where I'm headed. Thank you."

They turned and headed for the rough direction the Dwarf had pointed out, hoping they recognized enough of the Dwarven language to stumble upon this Diamond Quarter. By the sounds of it, it was where the nobility sequestered themselves from the commoners.

"This must seem like a return to your home, Warden," said Morrigan. Lance shook his head.

"I hated the politics. I never wanted any part of it."

"Oh? You did not wish your birthright?"

"Hardly. It was all nonsense. All about who could stab who in the back with a bigger smile."

"Sounds wonderful."

"For some."

They were in some sort of market, and Lance knew that he was lost. He looked around, saw that there were a number of vendors, all hawking their wares in the best manner they knew how. Which equated to loud shouting.

"Ooh, look at that," Leliana said, stopping to examine a Dwarf who was selling some sort of horrific underground animal. "It's like a cute little bunny-pig!"

"Don't touch it," said Lance. "You don't know where it's been."

"Aw, but look at it!"

Morrigan was examining some sort of robe, made from a silk-like material that Lance was sure hadn't come from silk. In fact, the whole of the party was busy looking at all sorts of items being sold at the market.

Lance laughed to himself. They had a world to save and seemed to be actively trying to do anything they could to not save it. If he wasn't hunting down Witches, then they were milling about in a foreign market.

He looked over the tables, examined the knick-knacks that by and large didn't interest him.

"This all just a huge pile of-"

Then he saw it.

He could scarcely believe his eyes. He reached out to touch it, looking over his shoulder to make sure that Morrigan wasn't looking.

"_It was so beautiful. Encrusted with gems and carvings, I was so happy to have it."_

He reached to touch the golden mirror that lay on the table. Polished glass, held in gold. He picked it up and examined it, saw that the back was a mixture of carved animals, that the rim surrounding the glass was encrusted with various gems, some of which Lance couldn't recognize.

"You l-l-l-like it?" asked the Dwarf who was running the stand. "It's a g-good piece, despite the lack of l-l-lyrium."

"Yeah, I like it," said Lance. "How much?"

"T-t-ten silver."

Lance handed the man a sovereign, grinning all the while. He took some wax paper to keep the mirror safe in his pack. He made sure to keep it secret from Morrigan. Oh, she would be so happy to get such a gift. He would wait for the right moment, surprise her with it.

What a good day it would be for them both.

And now, about that Diamond Quarter…


	45. Chorezammar

So, supporting Bhelen's bid for the throne turned out to indeed be one long fetch quest. Bhelen Aeducan was a… prick, to be honest. He'd spouted rhetoric about wanting to make Orzammar modern and end its isolation, and some nicer stuff about the plight of the Duster and the oppressiveness of the Castes, but Lance got the distinct feeling that he was a power-hungry maniac.

But they were already in too deep. Dwarven politics being what they were, Harrowmont couldn't have been too much better, could he? No, probably not.

At least Bhelen had been kind of enough to set them up in the palace's quarters. They actually had "Warden Quarters" as a treat to those Wardens that had come for their Calling. What for, Lance couldn't understand; a Warden went to his Calling to die, not relax. Regardless, Lance was grateful.

Having spent the whole of the day notifying a pair of Dwarven noble houses about Harrowmont's double dealing them, and cleaning a powerful Casteless criminal cartel, Lance was thankful for the plush bed.

The irony that it was much larger than any of the squat Dwarves was not lost on him. The other members of the group had their own rooms, all except Morrigan, who was currently resting on the bed with him.

"Back aches," he said. She yawned, and reached over to undo the straps on his armor.

"You carry too much in your pack. It may be wise to allow someone else to carry at least a portion of your equipment."

"Like who? Leliana couldn't carry it, Alistair has his own to worry about, and Wynne is too frail."

"What about the assassin?"

"I'm not giving him my stuff."

"What about me?"

"Would you?"

"No."

"There you go."

She urged him to sit up, just long enough to pull the armor over his head. He kicked off his boots, and then his socks. It felt good to be rid of that stuff, even just this once. He helped her with his leggings, and sighed when he was completely bereft of his armor.

"These moments are getting further between," he said. She yawned again, tired from having spent herself casting magic and trudging through the Deep Roads. She laid her head on his chest, cuddling herself up to him so that he could put one arm around her shoulders.

"What moments?"

"The ones without my gear. Without my weapon."

"You are a Grey Warden," she said. "There will seldom be a moment where you are not armed."

"I know. But that of course means it'll be harder for the two of us to… you know."

"I do. Were I you, I would make time."

"Would you, now?"

"Yes. Who knows," she said. He could feel her jaw tense. "Perhaps one day we might not be together."

"I don't even want to think about such a thing," said Lance. "If I can't be with you then there isn't much worth living for."

"You do not mean that, surely."

"Believe me, I do. And don't-"

"Call you 'Shirley', I know. Very funny."

"I'm glad somebody gets it."

"But I was being serious, Warden. We cannot be together always. The thought has crossed your mind, has it not?"

Lance shifted so that he could look at her better.

"Are you trying to tell me something? Are you saying that you don't-"

"I did not say that. I am merely asking for your pragmatism. We are together _now_, but suppose one day, after the Blight, we were not."

He shook his head, thinking. He couldn't stand that thought. He would go out of his mind.

"Honest?"

"Honest."

"I think I would leave for my Calling right then."

She lifted herself up on her elbows to look him in the eye. She was livid.

"No! You cannot say that. That is something you must not do."

He was taken aback, unable to reply. She continued.

"If I were to not be here," she said. She looked away. "I would want you to live. I would not want you to die needlessly."

"Sure," said Lance, reaching up to put his hands on her shoulders. "But this is all hypothetical, right? You aren't going to die anytime soon?"

"No. Not anytime soon, no. I do wish to stay with you. Forever, if I could."

He nodded, felt himself relax. He was exhausted, he realized, and he could barely keep his eyes open. She cuddled against him and she was warm.

There was a silent moment, one that he greatly enjoyed. He liked being with her, always.

"Warden?"

"Yes?"

"Do you wish to make love?"

"I'm kind of tired. Do you want to?"

"I would not be opposed. I, too, would enjoy a night's rest."

"Tell you what. Give me an hour. And we'll see if we're still in the mood."

"'Tis a fair idea. I like it."

He closed his eyes, held her tightly. They would only get a few hour's more sleep, and then they had to go out again. He didn't want to spend too much time in Orzammar, so far removed from civilization. He might end up liking it more. It was so isolated there, so far removed from the events of the world.

They could stay there, he realized. Stay there and forget about everyone and everything else. Forget about the Blight, about the Darkspawn. Well, maybe not the Darkspawn. The Dwarves fought an endless battle against the Darkspawn, one that saw them losing ground by inches. The only reason they could even tell there was a Blight was the noted reduction of Darkspawn attacking their lines.

That's why they respected Wardens. They were the only ones that took notice of the Dwarves, joined them in fighting. When a Grey Warden came for his Calling, he stood shoulder to shoulder with the Dwarves and fought to the death, killing as many Darkspawn as he could before being overwhelmed by their numbers.

That was a thought that made him uneasy. He had a time limit now. He had only so long before he was to be in the Deep Roads, fighting to his last breath. He wondered how many he would kill, if it would make a difference. They fought the Darkspawn for nearly a millennium now, Blight after Blight, victory after victory. And each time they counted their losses dearly, but what did the Darkspawn lose? They always had more men to sacrifice, if not on the surface then against the Dwarves.

How could they ever hope to win?

Maybe they couldn't. Maybe Lance was just delaying the inevitable by fighting the Blight.

They were headed into the Deep Roads later. Bhelen knew that the only way to guarantee a sweeping election in the Assembly was to get the support of a Paragon, a living ancestor. They had only one; Branka. Lance didn't know her, nor did he care to. But he was to enter the Deep Roads, following after her.

Bhelen wanted her support, or the confirmation that she wouldn't be backing Harrowmont, wink-wink. What a screwed up place to live.

He did a bit of research on the woman, what little he could before he was just too tired to care. She was supposed to have taken her entire house to the Deep Roads, to find some mythic artifact called the Anvil of the Void. Supposedly the device used to make the Golems that had turned the tide for the rapidly fading Dwarven people, lost to eternity in the centuries of Darkspawn-filled turmoil.

That was two years ago. No one had heard a peep from them since. So either she was dead, or she'd stumbled across the largest cache of rations ever stockpiled and had decided to take a vacation in the Deep Roads. Either way, he had the distinct feeling that finding her would prove a trial in futility.

What he cared more about was the fact that he would be entering the Deep Roads. Darkspawn-central. They would be crawling all over the place and, as his uneasy dreams had hinted, that was where the Archdemon was, assembling a massive army to sunder Thedas, to annihilate all life. Lance had no illusions; it was more than likely that he would die.

And if he did, then Ferelden was a lost cause. Certainly there were other Grey Wardens in other places that could carry on the fight, but Ferelden would never see them in time. Without the Wardens, the entire country was doomed.

And that weighed heavily on his mind.

"Warden?"

"Yeah."

"I have never slept with a man."

"Huh?"

"I mean to say, _just_ slept with a man. Spent the night with him. You are the first."

"I don't know what to say."

"You need not say anything. I only wished for you to know. It means quite a bit to me."

"You mean quite a bit to me."

She hummed a soft sound that told him she was content. And he was happy. He wanted her to be content.

And he let himself fall asleep, let himself dream of the screeching Archdemon.

_You are so close. I taste you. Come to me, Warden. Know the glory of my full form._

_Slumber now. I will steal you. You will belong to me._

Too soon he was jostled awake.

"Warden?" Morrigan said, her voice light, relaxed, happy. She was awake. "Warden, it has been several hours."

"I'm awake," he said, blinking sleep out of his eyes. He wasn't, truly. He was exhausted. He needed a hundred years' rest. But, as the old saying went, there was no rest for the wicked. And, looking at Morrigan now, he was very sure that he was a wicked, wicked man.

He reached up, grabbed her hips and playfully pulled her to him.

"When did you get to be so beautiful?" he asked, voice raspy from his lack of sleep. She smiled at him, coyly denying him the pleasure of a kiss.

"I have been led to believe 'twas always so."

"I guess it was."

She put one finger to his lips, keeping him quiet.

"We are to leave for the Deep Roads, yes?"

"Yes."

"You are aware that this may be our last chance to know one another."

"Yes."

She leaned in to kiss him, and it was Lance that stopped her this time. He sat up, suddenly feeling icy anticipation in his chest. He was afraid.

"Morrigan. I want you to stay here," he said. She wrinkled her forehead at him.

"What?"

"I want you to stay here, in the palace."

"Why? Are you mad? You _need_ me with you."

Lance sighed. He knew they would have a fight. He wanted to keep it as short and sweet as he could.

"We aren't going to dance with a few Genlocks in the woods," he said. "We're going to be in Darkspawn home turf. That trip to Aeducan Thaig? That was so far behind the frontline it might as well be considered friendly ground. We might not make it out of the tunnels. And I can't let you die."

"No. You need me. You know 'tis true. You know that I am necessary for this group to survive! You know I am necessary to the mission!"

"Morrigan, I will not risk you. I would cut my own heart out to save you, and I will not take you with me down there."

"You are a fool!"

He put his hands on her shoulders, trying to calm her. "Morrigan, please. I won't let the woman I love die at the hands of some monster."

She stared at him, saw the mixture of fear and resolve in his eyes.

"You will not allow me to leave?"

"Even if I have to knock you out."

"I see," she said with a sigh. She sat next to him, drew her knees in to rest her chin. Lance swallowed the lump in his throat, glad that he'd managed to reach an agreement with her.

"I'm asking Alistair to stay, too."

"At least take him with you!" she said. She was again livid. "He will fight to the death for you. You will need his dedication to you! You cannot leave me and your friend behind!"

"It would be bad enough to lose one of us," said Lance. "But I can't risk Ferelden losing its only other Grey Warden."

"Look," said Lance. "If I don't make it out. If none of us make it out. I want you to leave Ferelden. Alistair will understand; he's a Warden. He will salvage what he can here, gather the last of our allies, and hope that Eamon can get enough support in the Landsmeet. But I want you to go as far north as you can."

She looked at him, frustrated and angry, but understanding. She was sad, sad that he would think himself so easily killed. Sad because that meant _she_ would have to think him so easily killed.

"I will," she promised. She thought about what else she could say, if there was anything else that could be said.

"What if you find the Archdemon?" she asked, swallowing. Her hands shook nervously, and she held her knees to keep herself still.

"If I can, I will fight him."

"And then?"

"I'll come home."

She nodded, with a sad understanding. She sighed, realizing that she was far more worried than she need be.

"What if you die fighting the Archdemon?"

"If I'm not back this time tomorrow," he said. "Then I won't be coming back. Leave the rest to Alistair and get north."

"I do not think he can do it alone," she said. "He could barely stand being alone while you lay injured in mother's hut."

"He'll have to."

She nodded again. She looked at the small table by their bed, where a cup she had set there shortly before waking him sat. She stood up, took it and handed it to him, giving her best smile. She was brave.

"I made this for you," she said. "'Tis a tea that mother taught me to brew. It will invigorate you."

"Invigorate me?" he asked, giving her his own shaky smile. "I didn't know I needed help in that department."

"There is no harm in a little _more_," she said, giving him that seductive grin she gave when she entered his tent at night. "'Twas meant to prepare you for the journey ahead. I know that you do not get enough sleep because of your restless dreams. If I will not be going on this trip with you, then you may drink it all. I will not need it."

"Thank you," he said. He sipped it, was surprised that it was sweet. Peppermint, if he wasn't mistaken. "It's very good."

"Thank you."

He downed it all, wishing he had more. He thought about asking Morrigan for more, but knew that she would object to the housewife treatment. It would probably be easier to ask to make a batch himself. She might be willing to part with the secret.

He remembered something, something important, and went to his pack.

"I wanted to save this for a more special occasion," he said. "But I guess this'll have to do."

He pulled out the mirror, making sure it was covered in wax paper so that she couldn't tell what it was. He wished he'd had some proper wrapping paper.

He handed it to her, smiling. She took it, curious. She wasn't unused to receiving gifts from him at this point, but every time was somehow a unique experience. She pulled away the wax paper.

"What is this? A mirror?" and then her eyes widened, her breath caught in her throat. She put on hand to her neck, mouth working to formulate words. "This is almost identical to the one Flemeth broke all those years ago. I cannot believe I am holding this again."

Lance felt his heart race. He'd done good. He'd made her happy. Oh, thank the Maker; he had made Morrigan happy once more. And he was slowly ridding her of her past, ridding her of her fear of dependency. He was making her whole again.

"This is a wonderful gift. Certainly you must ask something in return."

He shook his head. "No. You know that isn't how this works. It's simply a present. For a beautiful woman."

He took a casual step closer, touched her chin, made her look at him.

"For the most beautiful woman."

He kissed her, feeling once more the joy of being in love with her, that indescribable ecstasy that came with knowing that Morrigan was in love with him. He could live the rest of his life with nothing else and he would be fine.

"Warden," she whispered. "I do not know what to say. This… I have _never_ received a gift that did not come with a price. I have _never_ known anybody to give something freely for another. I do not know how to thank you."

"You already did," said Lance. He put his arms around her, hugged her. "I need nothing else."

She looked at the mirror, at her face in it, and she smiled. He stepped behind, peered over her shoulder. He saw her in the mirror, and he hoped he was seeing the little girl that had held a similar one years ago.

"Do you know what I see?" she asked.

"What?"

She tilted the mirror slightly, so that his image took up its center.

"I see my Warden."

He held her shoulders, kissed her neck. "I'll always be here."

She shuddered, briefly, slight. Almost imperceptible. And she nodded.

"We cannot talk of the future," she said. "'Tis written in the present. And I would rather not fool myself with wishful thinking, should our present not be so bright."

"I understand."

She moved to the bed, held the mirror close to her chest. She sat down, looked at it intently, quite pleased. She stroked it, felt the carved animals, the frolicking birds. She traced the contours of the precious gems embedded in it, smiling longingly.

She looked up at the Warden, and he sat at the edge of the bed beside her.

"I have something for you," she said. She was hesitant to set the mirror down, but she did so just long enough to reach into her pack.

"Is it bigger than a breadbox?" asked Lance, suddenly nervous to be receiving a gift from her. He was always awkward when receiving gifts. He never knew how to say "thanks" without sounding fake or ungrateful.

She held it in her hand, offering her closed fist to him.

"'Tis a ring," she said. He cocked an eyebrow. "Before you get any foolish notions, let me explain. Flemeth gave me this ring because it allowed her to find me no matter where I was, in case I should be captured by hunters or worse. Naturally I disabled its magic as soon as we left the Wilds."

"So…"

She held up a finger, making him sit quietly before she had finished.

"I only recently thought to reactivate its power, now that you are to be delving into the Deep Roads. I thought to change it. Now I will be able to find whoever wears it instead. Namely you."

"It's a sweet gift," said Lance, offering to take it. "Thank you."

She clucked her tongue at him and scowled.

"'Tis not a gift given out of sentimentality," she said. "I believe you are too important to lose. If you were lost or captured, this ring would allow me – us – to find you."

Lance nodded, unable to stop smiling at her insistence on it not being from her personally. He knew it was. She wanted to keep tabs on him. He wished he had some way of doing the same.

"Does it do anything else?" he asked.

"Flemeth used to say 'twas a link between us, one that I presumed worked both ways. I never tested it, but I doubt that she would have lied about _that_. So it would mean that I am linked to you, as much as you to I."

Lance nodded. "I thought you had no designs on my independence."

"I am tempted to take it back."

"I'll take it. Thank you," he said. He slipped it over his index finger, knowing that she would likely be opposed to his placing over a certain other finger. "Does this mean I could find _you_ if need be?"

She blinked, looked away. She held her mirror all the tighter.

"I do not know. As I said, I never tested it. Perhaps."

"Okay," said Lance. "Thank you, Morrigan."

She looked at the floor, shy all of a sudden. She was so strange like that. They could lie close to one another, whisper sweet things in the throes of passion. But saying, "I care too much about you" was still something too difficult. But he knew. And he was suddenly okay with that.

He looked at the ring, marveling at it. It was magic, her magic. That made him feel close to her. It was some sort of wood, possibly rosewood? There were tiny animals in the grains, and they somehow seemed to move and change shape, becoming other animals and making it all the more mysterious.

He felt something. Was it from the ring? Yes, it felt like it. It was… it was exactly the same thing he felt for her, but directed at him. Tinged with something else. Sadness? She was sad, and she was in love, that was obvious.

"Are you feeling the effects of the tea?" she asked. Lance thought for a moment. He was a little perkier than he had been when she woke him up. But he was still tired.

"No, I'm not quite up and at 'em yet. I'm getting there, though."

"I see."

She looked at the mirror again, smiled. She bit her lip, thinking.

"Warden, this could be the last time we see each other," she said. "It could be the last time we speak to one another."

"I know."

"Lay with me."

He looked at her. She was looking back at him. On her face, now, there wasn't the same lust he'd become so familiar with, that he'd known for so long. There was… love, maybe? Was it the same way he looked, when he saw her?

She spoke again, "Lay with me one last time, should you fall."

He nodded, butterflies in his stomach.

She put the mirror down, freeing her hands to reach out to him, to hold him as he kissed her, tug at his shirt and to help him with her robes.

He couldn't believe how much he loved her, how afraid he was to be leaving for the Deep Roads, to be facing the entirety of the Darkspawn horde. But he wouldn't risk her. He'd told her the truth when he promised to cut his own heart out before he let her die.

Their lovemaking held a trace of sorrow to it, as the finality sunk in. He was sure, then, that this was the last time he would ever know her; the last time she would share herself with him. And he desperately did not want to leave her.

But he knew his duty. He would not shrink from it.

For her sake.

She held his wrists, prevented him from touching her, as she rocked back and forth. It was agonizing. She was whispering, in between her gasps and moans. He couldn't quite hear, but soon enough he didn't care to.

He made up for not being able to touch her afterwards. He lay next to her, gently caressing her body and feeling all those areas he'd longed to take hold of.

"I love you," he said. She nodded. She curled up, like a cat.

She said nothing, though he could feel her sorrow. He kissed her back, her shoulders. He was tired, again. And he found that sleep was so tantalizingly close that he couldn't deny it. He lay on his back, arms feeling heavy, distant.

They would leave soon, but a few hours of sleep would make no difference.

There was a knock at the door.

Lance didn't know if he had yet to fall asleep or if he had been sleeping for some time yet. But he was exhausted either way.

He sat up, even as Morrigan moved to leave the bed. He held up a hand, letting her know that he would answer.

It was a struggle to get out of bed, to pull on his trousers and to mumble a "wait a minute" to their visitor. He looked over at their warm sheets longingly; both for the woman that lay nude in them and for the act of sleep itself.

He stumbled to the door regardless, wiping his eyes awake. It didn't work.

"Hello?" he muttered, barely able to keep himself standing straight for the length of time it took to see who was knocking. It was Alistair, and he looked grim.

"Lance," he said.

"Alistair, I was just going to talk to you."

"I know."

And Alistair slammed what might have been a candlestick against his head. Lance fell back, slamming against the floor in such a manner that he went dizzy. He limply felt for his head, felt sticky warmth.

"What are you doing, fool!"

"I was knocking him out," Alistair said, voice miles away. "I thought that was the plan."

"The plan called for him to be put asleep, not have his brains beaten out of him."

"Oh. Well he was still awake. You didn't do your job."

"I did. I always work him to exhaustion when we make love."

"Gross!"

"And besides that, I cast a spell on him. And laced his tea."

"Oh."

He was dimly aware that Morrigan was standing over him, wrapped in only a sheet. She put a hand to his head, the wound stinging. He felt her magic again, and the pain dulled. Black spots appeared at the edges of his vision, and he knew that he was falling into unconsciousness.

"Now help me get him onto the bed."

And he was no longer able to stay awake.


	46. Oghren

He woke with a start, head throbbing.

He looked around the room rapidly, seeing that he was alone. Those morons!

They'd left him behind to go traipsing through the Deep Roads! What the hell was wrong with them?

He stood, wobbly on his legs, the effects of the tea, magic, sex, clap on the head all working against him. No kill like overkill, eh?

He grabbed his shirt, slipped it on over his head and tried to find his belt. His armor sat on the table nearby, and he grabbed it up, donning it as quickly as he could.

"Idiots," he breathed. "Crazy bastards."

He had to get to them, before they were lost in the Deep Roads, overcome by the Darkspawn. They would die without him!

He quickly grabbed Starfang.

He went to the door, paused just long enough to apply a health poultice to his head. It ached, but the gel soothed him a little.

The Royal Palace paid him no attention. Dwarves were too self important to notice a surfacer stumbling through their halls, dried blood on his face. Lucky thing for him; he really did not need to be held up by nosy guards.

Alistair, you buffoon! He could have killed Lance with that blow.

And Morrigan had let him! She had slipped some sort of herb into his tea, had cast magic on him! She was a tricky one. It might take a while before he could forgive her for this, though knowing her she would have _him_ apologizing after one night.

The Deep Roads.

He stared at the entrance. The tunnels were once part of the Dwarven highway system, a means by which they traveled between all their massive underground holdings. Now they were tunnels filled with Darkspawn, where the creatures could lie in wait between Blights. Parts of the Deep Roads were collapsing in on themselves; others had been intentionally closed off. The Darkspawn were tricky, though, and they were able to dig themselves through.

Lance was very unfamiliar with the Deep Roads, and only knew that Branka was most probably at Ortan Thaig.

"You there!" shouted a surly Dwarf. Lance gripped the hilt of his sword, turning to face the newcomer. He didn't want trouble, but he couldn't afford a delay. Besides, the pain in his head made him quite irritable.

"What?"

The Dwarf approached, a faint glimmer of a friendly smiled on his lips. His braided red beard was stained with what Lance could only presume to be booze, and lots of it. The guy's breath reeked of it, and his stance told Lance that the Dwarf was a perpetual drunk.

"You! You're the Grey Warden's got this place in an uproar, right?"

"Yeah. So what?"

"You're going into the Deep Roads, right? Bhelen finally decided to go after Branka? You're going, right?"

"Yes," said Lance, seeing the hopeful light in the Dwarf's eyes. He relaxed some, coming to the conclusion that the Dwarf would pose no threat.

"Take me with you."

Lance was too anxious to be annoyed, but tried to flesh out the situation regardless. As much as he wanted to run headlong after his companions, after Morrigan, he knew that it would be death. He had to keep his wits about him.

"Why?"

"Branka, she's my wife," said the Dwarf. He cleared his throat, stood up straighter. "I'm Oghren. If you've heard of me, chances are you've heard that I piss ale and murder little boys that look at me funny. All true."

"Oghren, I'm Lance. If you've heard of me, I'd be surprised."

"Take me with you, Warden. I know the Deep Roads as well as anyone, and you'll need a guide."

Lance nodded, not in the mood to argue and knowing all too well that Oghren was right. "Let's go get Branka."

"I've been waiting for two soddin' years to hear someone say that."

Lance nodded to the Deep Roads entrance, where a number of guards stood watch for Darkspawn. They'd learned long ago not to approach Orzammar without an army, and the frontlines were so far ahead that the only Darkspawn that came this close to the city were lost.

No one really knew what the Darkspawn did deep in the Roads, but Lance had heard a number of theories. None of them good.

"We have to get to Ortan Thaig," he said. Oghren nodded. He gripped the big axe on his back, readied it. Lance unsheathed Starfang.

"We'll need to pass through Caridin's Cross," said Oghren. "And after that, it's Darkspawn city."

"Bring 'em on."

"Heh. I like you, Warden."

They charged into the Deep Roads, Lance feeling as though he was running out of time. He fought to keep out images of Morrigan lying on the stone floor, fought to think of something other than blood everywhere. If that happened…

Caridin's Cross wasn't too far from Orzammar. It was close enough the expeditions could be mounted with reasonable security. Certainly Darkspawn scouts had been slain there, and worse Deep Roads creatures nested there.

The first sign of Lance's companions came in the form of slain Dwarven mercenaries. Oghren paused to inspect the bodies, watery eyes examining for whatever telltale signs were there. Lance stood anxiously beside him, rocking back and forth on his heel, waiting to charge into the Roads.

"These are Harrowmont's men," said Oghren. "Looks like he decided to keep your friends from finding Branka."

"We see how well that went," said Lance. He glanced over the corpses; slit throats letting him know all he needed to. "Zevran's handy work."

Oghren stood, holding his heavy axe tighter.

He pounded on ahead, and Lance followed, teeth gritted with worry. He could think of every bloody, horrendous way for a person, a mage, to die down here. To die alone, reaching out to the choking darkness. To die without ever knowing that she was loved, loved beyond all reckoning. Without knowing that there was a man willing to fall on his sword to save her.

Oghren looked back over his shoulder at the Warden, red eyebrow cocked in curious anxiety.

"Who are you worried about, Warden?" he asked, slowing his pace. Lance felt that he might smash the man's head in if they didn't go any faster.

"What? No one, let's hurry!"

"You're face is white, Warden. You've got the same look I had for the first year Branka was gone," said Oghren. He stopped, looking over some desiccated Darkspawn. Lance already knew that his friends had been through, knew that Morrigan had toasted that Ogre over there. Oghren examined them as if looking for some sort of loot.

"My friends…" Lance said, trying to indicate that they needed to hurry through the tunnels. Oghren shook his head.

"It's a woman, ain't it?"

"What? Yeah. Yes, a woman. A hot woman. Can we go?"

"Heh. I guess the Grey Wardens aren't as pure and noble as they say, huh? Guess they like to do some good ol' fashion ruttin', too, eh?"

"I- what? That's something we can talk about later, I've gotta go."

Oghren, the decidedly dirty Dwarf, chuckled behind him as they went.

Caridin's Cross was long since collapsed. Most of the superhighway was ruin, though there were still plenty of side tunnels and blown-out sections of wall to navigate through. Darkspawn corpses littered the site, the signs of his friends' passing.

He felt his heart grow cold as they continued, seeing ever more Darkspawn. He was so terrified that he would stumble across one of his friends, dying from sword wounds or the Taint. Oghren, too, looked worried. He searched the walls and the floor, looking for something.

For signs, Lance realized, of his own woman's passing. For signs of battle, Dwarven arms. For whatever road signs she would have left. She had led her entire House into the Deep Roads two years ago, chasing after some pipe dream, and Oghren was left behind. What a kick to the balls. Oghren's words.

Lance was a little less concerned about Oghren's personal problems than he normally would have been –being the caring guy that he was – and was far more interested in catching up with his teammates. Oghren was understandably excited about finally getting the chance to track down the woman that had left him behind, who he presumably loved. Although given Oghren's commentary, that was a little less than likely.

"There," he shouted. "Up ahead."

Oghren pointed out a left turn, the way out of Caridin's Cross.

"Ortan Thaig here we come!"

Lance was running full speed, breathing hard. He wasn't used to such long-distance running, but he would make it work for Morrigan's sake. Oghren had trouble keeping up, explaining that Dwarves were natural sprinters, not cross-country runners.

He didn't mention his short legs.

"The old Thaigs are jam-packed with monsters," Oghren said. He made them stop so that he could explain, though Lance got the feeling he needed a breather. Whatever, so long as they hurried it up. "Thaig crawlers. Some of them are Tainted. All that Darkspawn meat gets tasty for them. They keep the Darkspawn getting to thick this far behind the lines."

"I hate spiders," Lance muttered and held Starfang tighter. He stormed on ahead, trying to keep his surrounding in mind. There were scatted Thaig crawlers all over the place, chopped to bits and devoid of their spider blood. He held his sword even tighter.

He couldn't see any red blood, so that was good. Provided the spiders hadn't just slurped it all up. The Thaig was quiet, empty. Oghren made to look around, to examine the Thaig more closely. Lance already knew they were alone.

"Ortan Thaig!" Oghren declared, examining the decaying structures with great interest. "I never thought I'd ever set foot in here."

"They aren't here," said Lance. "We're still trailing."

"They must have found something," said Oghren. "Must have found a clue, or a sign, something!"

Lance was looking around, not at all distracted by the great decaying building around him. It was all just so much triviality compared to the imminent danger Morrigan was in. There was a noise to his immediate right.

He had his sword in front of him, held with both hands, before he even realized what he was doing. He spun about, taking a defensive posture. Oghren was suddenly beside him, holding his axe and acting with a swiftness he wouldn't have expected of the Dwarf.

The noise-maker wasn't any sort of monster, and thankfully not a spider, but it was no less unsettling. A Dwarf, skinny and holding himself like a crazy man was staring out at them.

"Look out," Oghren whispered. "He's a scavenger. Eatin' Darkspawn corpses to stay alive."

"Men die from eating Darkspawn," said Lance. The Dwarf scavenger made a squealing noise.

"It burns. The blood burns when it goes down," he said. His voice was horse and shrieking from disuse. "You… you are not the other ones!"

"Other ones?" Lance asked, lowering his sword to better appear as a friend. "Other ones? Did they look like me? Were they human?"

The Dwarf nodded, recoiling from Lance. "They give Ruck shiny coins."

"Ruck? Was there a woman?" Lance asked. "Dark hair, like mine, attitude problem?"

Ruck nodded. "She wanted to hurt Ruck."

"Okay, that's her. Where did they go?" Lance asked. Ruck looked at him, cocking his head as if unsure if he should trust Lance. Lance sighed, reached into his coin purse and tossed out a few silvers at Ruck's feet. The Dwarf picked them up, examined them, and promptly put them in his mouth.

"This way," he said, and ran off to the other side of the Thaig. Lance and Oghren exchanged looks of discomfort but followed. Ruck led them past a number of shattered Golems, creatures Lance had been led to believe were all gone. Regardless, he was glad that Ruck had seen them, and that Morrigan had been alive when they'd passed through.

He wondered how long ago it had been since they'd come through here. He wondered exactly how long he'd been unconscious. He hadn't exactly stopped to check.

Ruck led them past a number of dismembered Thaig crawlers, some having been torn to shreds by bolts of magic. Either Wynne or Morrigan.

"Here, here," said Ruck, babbling and indicating some sort of large book. Lance poked at it, saw that it was dust-caked and otherwise old. Ruck babbled a bit more, and Lance caught on that whatever was written in the book had guided his companions.

Oghren stepped in, quickly fumbling through the pages. He was wasted, yet able to read. Lance was quite a bit impressed.

"Hah!" he declared. "This is Branka's journal! Look, see this? She was thinkin' of me! Ol' softy…"

"Where did she go?" Lance asked, getting irritated. He would have told Oghren to buzz off had he not needed the Dwarf to guide him.

"The Dead Trenches," said Oghren, looking pale. Lance hissed.

"Of course. Where else? What are the Dead Trenches?"

"They're the frontline," said Oghren. "Everything in the Dead Trenches belongs to the Darkspawn."

"Fantastic. We have to get there."

"It's a long way," said Oghren. "I've got no idea how your pals could have found it on their own. They might be lost out there."

"We'll find them."

"Hey, Warden, not to sound like a drag here but what if they're dead?"

Lance frowned, looked at his sword. What _if_ they were dead? Then he supposed the Blight would win after all. He looked over at Oghren, drew his lips into a thin line.

"What if Branka's dead?"

"Good point. Let's go, Warden. Before we start to look like this poor sod."

Ruck was busy rifling through the various smashed chests that surrounding the journal, barely paying attention to the two of them. Lance looked at the tunnel leading further into the Deep Roads from the Thaig. If his companions went down there, if Branka went down there, then Lance and Oghren were going down there.

"Lead on."


	47. The Dead Trenches

The Deep Roads were, for lack of a better word, Deep. They'd been walking for straight hours. Lance had wanted to run, but he was quickly out of breath. The Deep Roads were massive, and Oghren didn't bother jogging. He knew they still had miles to go.

Every step managed to make Lance more anxious, however, as they passed corpse after corpse of Darkspawn and Thaig crawlers. The Darkspawn were getting thicker the further they got into the Deep Roads. The Dead Trenches had been aptly named.

"The Legion of the Dead still runs patrols here," said Oghren. "Maybe we'll get lucky and find one. If your friends passed through here, Warden, they'll have seen 'em."

"I certainly hope so," said Lance, finding it harder and harder not to snap at the Dwarf. Under different circumstances he certainly could have befriended the Dwarf. He was filled with risqué jokes and a definite boozer, but he managed to keep a sort of calm about him even when he was just as strung out as Lance.

He could respect that. The walking, with nothing to do, however, got on Lance's nerves more than anything else. He couldn't help but imagine all the varied gruesome ways a person could die down there.

Oghren at some point caught on, or was busy doing the same, and started speaking.

"So, Warden, what are you doin' here?"

"I'm getting allies to fight against the Blight."

"Blight, huh. Guess that means you'll be taking Orzammar's armies with you."

"Looks that way," said Lance. Oghren nodded, rubbing his chin.

"Would you have room for an old soldier?"

"You know any?"

"Just like to keep my options open, if this thing with Branka doesn't work out in my favor, you know?"

"Sure."

"And these companions of yours. They're Grey Wardens, too?"

"One of them, yes."

"I see."

Lance glanced over at the Dwarf, saw that he was staring up at him thoughtfully. He tapped his chin with a gauntleted finger, a dirty grin spreading across his face.

"So are you boffin' the Warden?"

"What? Oh, Maker, no. Why would I-"

"Okay, so it's a man. Then who's the gal you're after, huh? You asked ol' Ruck some very specific questions, and you didn't once mention anyone else you travel with…"

"I'm chasing after a woman, yes. What are you driving at?"

"Who is she?"

Lance scowled. He really didn't know where this line of questioning was going, nor was he particularly fond of it.

"What are you getting at?"

"Come on. I never get to pester humans any more. She's a human, right?"

"Yes, she's human."

"You said she had black hair like yours?"

"Yes."

"And a bad attitude."

"Frequently."

"Mm. I think I'm having a flashback to Branka. Ya like 'em feisty then?"

"That would be highly inappropriate of me to discuss."

"Oh. Is _she_ feisty?"

Lance looked over at the Dwarf, who was waggling his eyebrows in a way that made Lance laugh. The little lecher was just too much fun. So Lance nodded.

"Yes, she's a feisty one."

"A real dragon in bed, am I right?"

"Oh, yes. Hm. Yeah…"

"She likes some… animation?"

"You better believe it."

Lance chuckled, rubbing the stubble on his jaw as he thought back to one of their nights together. He couldn't help the flutter he felt in his chest, or the physical reaction that was made all the more uncomfortable by his armor.

"Describe her for me, lemme get a mental picture of this broad."

"Well, she's a couple inches shorter than me, she's got the black hair that she likes to put up, and the most amazing gold eyes…"

"Yeah, and…"

"Uh, fair skin, almost flawless complexion. I have no idea how she does it, it's gotta be magic. I mean, no woman has that kind of smooth, flawless-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. And…"

Lance wrinkled his forehead, trying to think about what else he could say about her.

"Long legs," he said. "Flat stomach. Skinny arms – really skinny. I think I'll see if I can't get her to eat a little more. I like a girl with some meat."

"Okay, right, got it. Now, what about her _other_ qualities."

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh, don't tell me you're that thick! The goods! What are they like, huh? Big, small, firm, squishy? What about her nip-"

"Okay, I think we're done here."

"Aw, you're no fun, Warden. At least tell me what you do with her legs."

"What? I don't even… What?"

"Her legs. Dwarf legs are too short to use as an accessory. You said she has long legs, so what'd ya do with 'em?"

"I really think that's too personal."

"Come on. She have a preference?"

"Well there was this once when we- wait, no!"

"Just as well," said Oghren, sounding a little disappointed. Lance looked over at the Dwarf, making a face to keep himself from laughing out loud. The little guy had some nerve. Who did he think he was that he could pry into such intimate details?

Lance shook his head, smiling.

He did remember the night in question, when Morrigan had made the most entertaining suggestion. He'd done something with her legs all right…

And then he realized what Oghren had done. He'd kept him from thinking about all the bad things that could have befallen her and the others. It worked. He was alright.

"You smell that?" Oghren asked. Lance curled his nose.

"Oh, say you didn't."

"I didn't. Smell the air here, Warden."

He didn't need to. He could feel them. He unsheathed Starfang, and Oghren did the same.

They charged the tunnel ahead, where a battle was picking up. Dwarves fighting hordes of Darkspawn. Oghren let out a war cry, one that resounded through the stone halls.

The battle had formed on a shattered bridge. The Darkspawn were charging a line of Dead Legionnaires, Dwarves already surrounded by countless fallen Darkspawn.

Lance tried to match Oghren's roar as he charged. Finally, he was able to do something.

He stabbed Starfang into the chest of the nearest Hurlock, it's otherworldly blade shearing through the rusted armor with ease.

He parried, slashed, stabbed and kicked, clearing a space in front of him. The Dwarves maintained their line, keeping a phalanx of their shields and axes to become an almost impenetrable wall of steel. Oghren and Lance waded into the rushing Darkspawn tide.

It felt good to cut them down.

Starfang was exceedingly good at killing Darkspawn. Their armor and flesh could put up little resistance. It sliced through them so cleanly that he could scarcely believe that he was killing them. But he was. In their dozens.

They charged in a single wave, a vast flowing sea of Darkspawn. He swung left and right, dropping them at his feet. Red-black brackish blood ran around his boots. The bridge was clogged with Darkspawn bodies, too thick to walk through. The Darkspawn eventually realized the futility of their situation and charged off.

Lance got the uncomfortable feeling that in a few more decades he would have to chase after them.

"Well done, Warden," said the Dwarf leader of the Legionnaires. He clapped the Warden on his shoulder, having to stand up on his toes to do it. "I've never seen fighting like that."

"Thanks," he said. Oghren was too busy pulling his axe out of a Hurlock's head to join them.

"Name's Kardol," said the Dwarf. "I never thought I'd see two Wardens down here."

"You've seen another Warden? Oh, good. Was he with other people?"

"Yes, a big group. Didn't seem like he was on his Calling, though. What about you?"

"I'm trying to catch up to them."

"What are you folk doing this far into the Roads if you plan on leaving?"

"We've come to seek aid against the Blight."

"A Blight? Well, that does make quite a bit of sense. That explains why they've been so easy on us."

Lance looked at the pile of bodies formed by their fighting.

"This is easy?"

"Heh, any other day, Warden, and they wouldn't have retreated."

"It's really that bad?"

"Every day."

Lance sighed. He was getting even more worried for Morrigan. He needed to find her now, to be near her. He was slowly going insane as it was.

"Do you know which way they went?"

"Sent them yonder," said Kardol. "They were quite in a rush. Helped us take out the first wave of these bastards."

"Thank you," said Lance. "I've got to go."

"We'll be here, Warden. Every day."

Lance took a moment to kick the bodies from the bridge, giving them room enough to move forward.

They had to take a detour through a tunnel, the gates to the next area being long since sealed. A great battle had once been fought here, against the Darkspawn. It had resulted in a mass death of Dwarves. They'd welded the gates shut. The Darkspawn had dug around.

The crushed, slashed, gouged and burnt bodies of countless Darkspawn served as road signs, signaling his companions' passing. Oghren looked hopeful.

"They've made it this far already," said Oghren. "They must be some sodding powerful people."

"The best," said Lance. Oghren nodded. They trudged on.

Just ahead, another bridge, shattered long ago in another bid to stall the Darkspawn armies. That, too, had failed. And now Lance could only be awed by the sight.

He peered over the side of the broken bridge, down to the floor hundreds of feet below.

"By my Ancestors' brass balls," Oghren whispered. "That's a lot of Darkspawn."

Lance nodded, numbly. He couldn't describe the feeling of seeing the full Darkspawn army.

Torches lit the ground, carried by Darkspawn to light their way. It was so bright that they reflected off of the stone ceiling some miles above. Lance could barely see.

Millions of them, maybe more. They were marching, north, to whatever secret exit they had found to the Korcari Wilds. Siege engines were carried with them, flimsy things constructed out of whatever materials they could find down there.

Genlocks and Hurlocks marched in rank and file, screaming and growling to each other. Ogres marched in lines, extending from one end of the army to the other, beyond sight. This was a Blight.

"There's so many of them," said Lance. "How many could I kill? Would it even make a difference?"

"Never does, Warden," said Oghren. "We've been at it for centuries. Haven't even retaken our lost ground yet."

Lance turned to speak to the Dwarf, to question their chances of victory. But a screech drowned out all thoughts. He put his hand to his ears, writhing in pain. He fell to the ground, curling up helplessly. He might have shouted in pain.

The Archdemon, so close he could feel it. He could hear it. It was calling to him.

_Come to me_.

"I cannot," Lance said. He could taste copper.

_Come to me._

"No. I refuse."

Oghren was standing over him, shaking him into consciousness.

"Warden, what are you doing? We have to go."

"The Archdemon! He feels me here. I can't stand it."

_Where are you? What do you fear? What is your name?_

"No!"

_I see. I know. She is coming to me. Follow her. Go to her. I will wait for you._

All at once the pain stopped, the feeling of the Archdemon's presence vanished. He stood upright, grabbing his sword. He could feel blood dribbling from his mouth.

"Let's go," he said, charging ahead. "Hurry!"

Oghren trailed behind him, utterly confused and not a bit frightened.

He was rushing headlong. The Darkspawn were thick here, thick enough to replace their losses in the tunnels within minutes of losing them. A small group of Darkspawn had assembled, preparing for another assault on the Dwarves. They sense him approaching, just as he was descending on them.

He swept through them, relieving them of heads, arms, arteries. They fell two, three at a time. Starfang worked with speed and finesse, recognizing its master's desperation. Oghren was barely able to catch up before the Warden had finished off the last of the Darkspawn and was heading forward once again.

The twisted, spiked bodies of several Darkspawn that Lance had never seen before lay on the bridge, cut through by blades and magic. Several were riddled with arrows from Leliana's bow.

"Shrieks," said Oghren. "Nasty buggers. They like to hide in the Thaigs sometimes. They can really tear you up if you aren't careful."

"Great."

He crossed the bridge, keeping his eyes peeled for more of the shrieks. He didn't particularly want to meet any of them face-to-face. And he would try to keep it that way. He could think with ever-increasing horror about what might have happened to Morrigan in his absence.

"I've gotta find her," he muttered. Oghren looked up at him, pity in his eyes. Lance regarded him with a curt nod.

They were in another series of tunnels, Darkspawn corpses guiding them on their way to the fortress of Bownammar. It was ancient fortress, according to Oghren, one that had been lost centuries ago. It was supposed to be the resting ground of many Dead Legionnaires.

But Lance could have given a damn about all of it so long as Morrigan was out there.

Stupid girl! She'd left him behind for what? He wanted her to stay, begged her to stay. And Alistair? What the hell was he thinking? Lance would rip them both in half if the Darkspawn hadn't done it already.

He kicked aside a Hurlock, made limp by the application of Starfang to his brain, and stumbled out of the narrow tube to a much wider tunnel constructed long ago by the Dwarves. For what purpose, Lance could only guess at.

"Hey, Warden," Oghren said, raising his axe defensively. "You hear something?"

"Like what?"

Oghren held up his fist, signaling the Warden to be quiet and listen. He strained his ears, hearing nothing but dark.

He was about to ask Oghren what he was going on about when he heard it.

"First day, they come and catch everyone."

A Dwarven room, distant yet close. He almost choked. It was so damn creepy. He held up his own sword for defense, found himself putting his back against Oghren's, looking all around for the speaker.

"Second day, they beat us and eat some for meat."

Lance tapped Oghren's shoulder mouthing for them to move ahead as quietly as possible. They speaker couldn't have been behind them, it was impossible. That meant dead ahead. The tunnel gave way to another Dwarven ruin, probably Bownammar itself.

"Third day, the men are all gnawed on again."

They approached the ruin, stepping gingerly over the maw of rock. The Taint had spread across the Dwarven ruin, manifesting itself in pulsating, weeping pustules. Lance stayed clear of those.

"Fourth day, we wait and fear for our fate."

They were coming closer to the source now, and Lance gripped his sword even tighter, feeling his tendons creak.

"Fifth day, they return and it's another girls turn."

Oghren and Lance split up, each taking one side of the hallway, sticking to the walls. They glanced back and forth at each other, making sure they were in constant communication.

"Sixth day, her screams we hear in our dreams."

Lance swallowed, feeling as though he'd made a big mistake coming this far into the Deep Roads. They'd made a big mistake agreeing to do this at all. He shouldn't be here. Bhelen should have just hoped for the best, Paragon regardless.

"Seventh day, she grew as in her mouth they spew."

There was a door ahead, just a few feet. Lance knew they would find the mystery speaker on the other side. He held his breath, fighting to relax his body so that the horror wouldn't come as much of a shock.

"Eighth day, we hated as she is violated."

Oghren signaled to the Warden, pointing to his nose. Lance nodded. He could feel Darkspawn nearby, just as Oghren could smell 'em.

"Ninth day, she grins and devours her kin."

They quickly gave a series of hand signals to each other, planning out how they would attack. Oghren would kick the door in and they would try to get out of the way as soon as possible, to keep from making themselves easy targets.

"Now she does feast, as she's become the beast."

They reached the door, Oghren taking his place before it. He let out a small grunt, readying to bust the door open.

"Now you lay in wait, for their screams will haunt you in your sleep."

Oghren delivered a mail-clad foot to the door, smashing it open, sending it off its hinges. He charged in, axe ready. Lance followed right behind and they went in separate directions, crossing the room.

Lance's eyes darted left and right, scanning the room for Darkspawn. He could feel them, nearly hundreds of them, but he couldn't see them. There was only a Dwarven woman.

She was rifling through Darkspawn filth, scavenging. Lance approached her hesitantly. He could feel the Taint in her, and he was repulsed.

"Hello?"

She turned, slowly, whispering to herself as she acknowledged him. Lance swallowed back a shout when he saw her face, covered with the swirling black splotches that signified Taint. She was succumbing to the Taint in a way he'd never even heard of.

"You are come," she said. She sniffed the around him for a moment, and looked undisturbed by his presence. "You are already one of them."

Oghren glanced over at him, curious. Lance shrugged, not having time to explain or share all of the Wardens' secrets.

"Have you met any others like me?" Lance asked. She nodded.

"I have seen many."

"I meant, have you seen people? Here, recently?"

She nodded and pointed towards the room's exit. Lance nodded, eager to run after his friends. Oghren wanted to stay and talk, though, to find out a little more. Lance couldn't say as though he wasn't curious.

"What's your name?" he asked, obviously disgusted by her. The woman looked at him and then back to her feet.

"Hespith."

"Hespith, we're after Branka. You're part of her House, right? Where is she?"

Hespith quivered at the name. She looked at the Warden and at Oghren before speaking.

"Branka… I loved her," said Hespith. "I loved her and she betrayed us all."

"Loved her?" asked Oghren. "You mean… Oh, I guess that's why she never came back. If I'd known she swung that way, I might have made a few adjustments."

"How did Branka betray you?" asked Lance. He took a tentative step forward. Hespith looked at him, her eyes watery.

"We were searching for the Anvil," said Hespith. "She wanted it more than anything."

"I know what that's like," said Oghren. Lance put a hand on the Dwarf's shoulder, and then removed it when he let out a belch. Disgusting twit.

"We all would have died for her," said Hespith. "We all died for her."

She turned to run away, and Lance called for her to wait. She ran to the exit, turning before she could leave.

"I have been betrayed in my heart," she said. "I am dying of something worse than death."

She sped off, and Lance gave chase, Oghren struggling to keep up.

Lance burst through the door Hespith had vanished through, suddenly in the narrow road before Bownammar.

"Warden!" Oghren called. Lance turned in time to see the Ogre rushing for him. He rolled, bringing his sword up as he did. He passed between the Ogre's legs – the luckiest maneuver in history – slashing up at whatever the Ogre had in the way of genitalia.

It didn't stop the Ogre, but it left it roaring in pain. It thrashed at the air over its head, as if desperate to cause the entire mountain to cave in.

Lance was up, sword in hand. Starfang would cleave right through the Ogre's back and into its spine. He was readying himself to jump on the thing, hoping Oghren would steer clear.

"Warden, behind you!" the Dwarf shouted. Lance glanced back, saw a second Ogre reaching out for him.

He arched his back, sending the point of his blade into the Ogre even as it grabbed him. He felt a finger or two chopped free. He lurched forward, falling onto his stomach and rolling to the side. Oghren was busy with the first Ogre, keeping it distracted long enough for Lance to deal with the second. They would have one hell of a story to tell if they made it out alive.

Lance rolled again, dodging a fist that shattered stone.

He slashed at it again and again, until the arm hung by a thread of tendon and a few arteries. He slashed at the other arm as it reached for him, splitting it in half so that the Ogre could only spit at him and slap with his now-useless flaps of skin.

Lance was on his feet, dodging the Ogre's snapping mouth and stabbing him in the chest until he was downed.

He turned to help Oghren, only to find that the Dwarf hadn't been able to distract the Ogre.

It grabbed him, picked him up.

Lance kept himself from vomiting as the Ogre roared in his face. He was pinned, sword arm flat against his side. He couldn't defend himself.

So he roared, challenging, loud. It scratched his throat and made him feel like a jackass but he roared back at the Ogre.

And his roar was met by Oghren's, who was climbing up the Ogre's back with his axe. The Ogre's grip loosened slightly, enough for Lance to start trying to wriggle free. Oghren was holding onto one horn while hitting the Ogre with his axe.

The beast reached back to grasp Oghren, to squish him. Lance could feel the Ogre's grip tightening, thought that he might end up splatter on the floor of the Deep Roads after all.

And an arrow whistled past his head, embedding itself in one of the Ogre's eyes, deep enough to force the Ogre to go limp and fall backwards, Oghren narrowly getting away uncrushed. Lance felt the Ogre's grip loosen enough for him to escape. He thought he might cough blood, but was unable to get a descent breath.

"Uh, Warden?" Oghren said, standing over him. Lance could only make a vague noise of interest.

"Huh?"

"These friends of yours?"

Lance craned his head to look over his feet, seeing Leliana, Wynne, Alistair, Zevran and Morrigan approached, running the gamut of reactions to his presence.

He looked back up at Oghren.

"Uh-huh."


	48. Branka

Lance stood finally; feeling a bit of tightness around his ribcage that he assumed would pass in time. He looked at his companions, not sure how to feel.

He looked over them, sizing them up. Alistair looked a little uneasy, as he should. Zevran was rather indifferent, trying his best to look happy to see his "boss". Wynne was grimacing, apparently upset that he'd followed despite their best efforts. Leliana looked ashamed, having left her Chevalier behind only for him to come rushing headlong after them anyways. And then there was Morrigan…

He took a few steps towards her, glad that she was uninjured. He took a moment to assess her, making sure that was free of bruises or scratches. She was fine it seemed, though the pair of lyrium potions she stored on her belt were missing.

He touched her face lightly, urging her to turn left and right so he could see that she was okay. She had an indignant look on her face.

"Morrigan…" he said, a smile flickering across his features. She was okay. Thank the Maker she had traversed the Deep Roads and come out okay. And he was here now to protect her.

"Grey Warden?"

He smiled wide. "Yes, love?"

She had a small smile on her lips, and he was fighting the urge to kiss her, despite the Darkspawn. She quickly snarled at him.

"What are you doing here? What is wrong with you?" she yelled. "Could you not see the oh-so-subtle message in lacing your tea and hitting you on the head?"

"Hey, now, wait a minute! I told you I didn't want you coming down here, and you go and pull a stunt like this!"

"I was thinking for your safety! One of us had to."

"Don't give me that," said Lance, tapping her chin with his index finger like he might an errant puppy. "I'm a Grey Warden, it's what I do. You shouldn't have come down here; you put yourself at risk and tossed me under the horse in doing it."

"I… you are too important to put in such great risk! You were supposed to stay put in bed!"

"Oh, sure. Stay put and pray to every god in existence that you came back."

"I was supposed to be back well before you had awoken. I see now that I greatly underestimated your endurance. Something that really should have been quite obvious to me. Ironic, really."

"And I haven't even touched upon the severe damage to our trust that _drugging_ me has caused. What got into your head, Morrigan, that it would be a such a good idea to slip me some sort of sleeping poison?"

"I had planned to apologize most energetically later tonight."

"Don't deflect this with sex."

"I was quite under the impression that you rather liked my sex. I see now that I was mistaken. Perhaps the Elf would be more to your tastes now?"

"I would really enjoy throttling you," said Lance. Morrigan crossed her arms.

"Yes, later tonight."

"Bottom line, Morrigan; I will not put the woman I love in danger. This will never happen again."

"Well I will not put the… you in danger, either. So unless you plan on heeding my words from now on, this _will_ happen again."

"Bullshit it will."

"And how do you propose to stop me?"

"I might tie you down."

"As I said; later tonight."

Alistair cleared his throat. Lance and Morrigan regarded him with knife-like glares, waiting for him to speak.

"As much as I hate to intrude on a lover's quarrel," he said, putting on his best nice guy routine. "I think we have some rather pressing matters to deal with."

"And you," said Lance, stabbing an accusing finger in his direction. "You beat me unconscious."

"Well, only after Morrigan drugged you, and tricked you into… you know."

"But never was the plan for you to _hit him_," Morrigan said. Lance nodded fervently.

Alistair raised his hands defensively.

"I was only trying to keep you safe," he said. "If you died then I would be all on my own against the Blight. I just wanted to make sure that Ferelden had a fighting chance."

"That was stupid, Alistair," Lance said, relaxing some. He couldn't stay mad at either of them.

"Yes, it was," Morrigan agreed, glad that he'd found someone else to shout at. "I disapprove."

Lance looked at her with a scowl. It softened eventually, and he sighed. She looked up at him, sad and batting her eyelashes at him. It was all an act of course; she would never be sorry for trying to stop him.

"You just don't know what you put me through," said Lance, reaching out to take her hands in his. "I can't lose you."

"I do know," said Morrigan. "You were going to do the same to me."

Lance could probably brag that he was the only person to have ever kissed a woman on the Deep Roads. And he didn't let the moment fly by too quickly, though he was sure to tone it down for the group's sake.

"Hey, turn a little," said Oghren. "Can't get a good angle."

"How thrilling," said Morrigan, breaking their kiss. "Who is the Dwarf?"

"This is Oghren," said Lance. "He guided me through the Deep Roads. He's after Branka just the same as us."

"I guess one more couldn't hurt," said Alistair. "Besides, we're pretty close."

He jerked his head in the direction of a pair of massive doors. Lance followed him, listening to him give the situation in brief.

"According to that Hespith girl, Branka and the Anvil are this way. She's flat bonkers by the sounds of it."

"What else is new?" asked Oghren. Alistair snorted.

"I don't think you know the half of it. She's sacrificed her whole House down here. You saw Hespith, right? I think Branka fed them Darkspawn."

"Fed them Darkspawn? For what?"

"I don't know. All Hespith would say," Alistair said, turning a big key in the door and pushing it open. There was another narrow passage of dark tunnel, and a foul stench coming from the far end. Lance could feel the Darkspawn, could feel it in his teeth again. "Broodmother."

Lance took the lead again, feeling as though he was once more satisfied to have his companions with him. Starfang glowed dimly, lighting the tunnel ahead of them.

He inched forward, feeling like there was more Darkspawn ahead than they'd ever encountered. It felt like just before meeting Hespith. He looked over at Alistair, who nodded his agreement.

They rounded the corner, to where they sensed the Darkspawn. It opened into a wide chamber, and Lance almost choked when he saw what lay within.

"Holy mother of Andraste."

Broodmother.

It might have once been a Dwarf. It might have once been female. Now, it was all horror. It's skin sagged heavily with excess weight. It was so large that it couldn't move. It's face was smeared with the rancid blood of its prey. Tentacles whipped around all about it.

It looked at them with dull, filmy eyes. And it screamed.

"Kill it," Lance shouted, charging into the chamber. Alistair and Oghren were on either side of him, and they cut their way through the forest of tentacles the Broodmother commanded. Starfang sliced left and right, rending the tentacles and spattering the dark, stinking blood everywhere.

Lance was almost to the Broodmother, ready to see how far he could bury his sword into its fat face. Something wrapped around his ankle, pulled him off his feet. It lifted him up so that he hung, calling out in pain as needles broke through the skin on his ankle.

He tried to cut the tentacle but failed. He was too far from the base to hack into it, and feared cutting his own foot off if he tried to cut the tentacle where it held him.

Oghren appeared, axe in hand.

"How's it hangin', Warden?" he laughed, sweeping the axe in an arc and cutting him free. He landed on the ground roughly. He looked up at the Broodmother, and it was staring down at him.

It started heaving, and Lance knew what was soon to follow. With a loud, stomach-churning belch, the Broodmother vomited, brackish green bile spattering across the floor where Lance had been.

He almost lost his own lunch, the smell of rotten meat wafting from the pile of liquid and mush on the floor. He tried to look away, to keep from vomiting and losing his nerve. A tentacle waved for him, trying to snare him.

He sliced neatly through it. The Broodmother was shrieking now, angry at having lost so many of her appendages and not having eaten her attackers yet. Leliana was drilling it with arrows, though they seemed to have little effect. The creature was so massive that the arrows couldn't bury their heads very deep.

Wynne and Morrigan's magic did a better job. They concentrated their magic, working together for once, drilling it again and again with aimed ice shards and fireballs and bolts of lightning.

The creature hissed and cried out as her flesh was burnt and pockmarked with holes.

Alastair and Oghren were back-to-back now, chopping at the forest of tentacles. Lance debated whether he should aid them or go for the Broodmother herself. Thankfully, Zevran leaped in, knives flashing left and right to free them from the tangled mess of fleshy spires.

Thick blood sprayed everywhere. Lance just knew he was going to have nightmares after this.

He went for the Broodmother, not exactly sure how to attack her. She spewed at him, and he was quick to get out of the way. The stone floor sizzled and popped where her bile hit.

He began to climb the fleshy lump at the Broodmother's back, putting himself well out of the way of her best attacks. She tried to crane her neck back to see him. She was unable.

He let out a single roar, bringing Starfang down deep into her head, jerking it left and right to cleave the biggest wound possible. The Broodmother thrashed, reaching up with short, fat arms to flail about. He withdrew the sword and plunged it in again, feeling the blade slice neatly through bone.

With a sickening crunch, the Broodmother stopped moving, the tentacles stopped waving madly.

Lance dropped down from the fleshy mess, feeling the creature's blood caking his boots. He would need a nice, long bath after this. Preferably with soap.

He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his dragonskin-clad hand, careful to avoid smearing gore on himself. The others were exhausted, having spent the better part of a day battling through hordes of Darkspawn and worse. This was just one more battle.

"What is that thing?" Alistair asked, grimacing as he looked on at the vomit-stained mess. Lance shook his head.

"Isn't it obvious?" he asked. He thought back to Hespith, to her little rhyme. "The Darkspawn are taking prisoners and doing _this_ to them."

"But why?"

Oghren snorted, leaning on his axe. "These things… they birth the little bastards! These 'broodmothers' are where the Darkspawn come from. Explains why we never seemed to kill enough of 'em."

Lance stepped over to Morrigan, who was trying to dry the sweat of her exertions with magical frost. She regarded him impassively, as though she were unaffected by the turn of events. Lance had a pretty strong hunch that she was just as disgusted as he.

"You see why I didn't want you to come down here?" he asked. She shrugged.

"You could not have known. You only sought to keep me behind because you believe me to be weak."

"I tried to keep you behind because I care about you."

"Yet you allow me travel with you regardless."

"That's different. Point is, I wanted to protect you. What if that happened to you?" he asked, pointing to the Broodmother. "You think that's what I want? Is that what you want?"

"You know what I want," she said, scowling at him. She glanced over her shoulder at Wynne, the one person who she absolutely did not want to hear her feelings for the Warden. "This is a discussion for another time. Right now we have important business to attend to."

Lance tried to grab her, to force her attention to the issue at hand. He knew it was irrational to have a spat on the Deep Roads, covered in Darkspawn filth. But he wasn't feeling very rational at the moment.

"Do not touch me," she said, recoiling from him. "You are soaked in blood and gore and sweat."

"Fine, then," he said, folding his arms. "We will talk when we're out of here, after I've cleaned up."

He turned, hefting his sword in one hand, spinning it around both to show off and to clean it of blood. He looked about, trying to find an exit to the room. He did, eventually, one that led to what appeared to have once been some sort of structure.

"I think we're close," said Oghren. "I can feel it in my bones."

Lance nodded. They'd come so far already, they had better be close. They exited the Broodmother's chamber, glad for the fresher underground air in the wider area ahead. Lance saw what looked to be some sort of wall.

He turned to ask Oghren what it was, only to be cut off by a thunderous clap behind them.

He spun around, saw that the entrance to the Broodmother's lair had been sealed off by rocks from above. He drew his sword, looking around for whatever could have trapped them.

And with some awe he realized that there was only one person watching them. And that she was unimpressed.

"So those politicking fools in Orzammar finally decided to send someone?" she said. "And surfacers by the look of it. Huh. They couldn't even be bothered to send their own errand boys to find me."

Oghren stepped forward, the look on his face suggesting that he was caught somewhere between awe and horror.

"Branka? Is it really you?"

Lance squinted at her. _This _was supposed to be a Paragon? Branka had definitely seen better days. She was clad in rusting, bloody armor; hair was sloppily cut short with a dull knife. Her face was covered in dirt and what might have been soot. Two years in the Deep Roads had certainly reduced her noble stature.

"Oghren, so you finally came," she said, almost as though she didn't care that her husband had arrived after two years of separation. Considering her relationship to Hespith, it wasn't too much of a surprise. "And in such strange company."

Oghren grunted. "Show some respect, woman, this is a Grey Warden."

Lance nodded. Branka just huffed.

"Well then perhaps you could aid me in my task," she said. Lance stepped forward.

"Look," he said, not at all eager to do more fetching for another Dwarf. "I've just had the single worst day of my life, and I'm trying to shake off one hell of a headache. Now Orzammar needs a Paragon to support a contender for the throne so I can get some sodding troops to go to the surface and fight some sodding Darkspawn. I am in no mood to entertain your whims."

"Oh, an irate errand boy," she said. She looked a little amused. "I don't care about those louts in the Assembly and I certainly don't care about Kings. But if you need troops to fight Darkspawn, then you're aid would be beneficial to us both."

"How do you figure?"

"I'm after the Anvil of the Void," she said, raising her hands for emphasis. "The means by which Paragon Caridin created armies of Golems! With this artifact we can drive back the Blight and return the Dwarves to their former glory."

Lance looked back at his companions, checking to see if they were taking any of this seriously. They weren't, thankfully. Oghren looked quite disconcerted. Lance couldn't blame him. They were trapped here, though, and left with little choice.

"So if we help you," Lance said. "You will support Bhelen for the throne?"

"If you help me I will create a crown for whatever king you want," said Branka. Lance nodded.

"Fine. What do you need?"

She looked ecstatic, and waved for them to go around the wall to whatever was hidden on the other side. She vanished behind the wall.

Lance hurried, not waiting to find out what else this crazy lady was capable of.

"I don't believe this," Oghren muttered. "Two soddin' years and she's still after the damn thing."

The Warden didn't dare comment.

The wall obscured what appeared to be some sort of camp. There were various artifacts of camp life there; axes, tools, various personal items. The tents were squat, Dwarf height. This must have been where Branka had led her House. Or what remained of it. There were no troops there, though. Just abandoned tents.

"They were my House," said Branka, lording over the tents. She looked sad, but somehow Lance thought it had little to do with the loss of her men. "They were pledged to me. _My_ men. My Hespith. But they all abandoned me. Even my Hespith. Did they not understand that greatness requires sacrifice? They were my House! They could not leave me!"

Lance looked at the others, trying to keep his external reaction to a minimum, afraid of inciting Branka to drastic action. It was clear that she'd lost her mind in the Deep Roads. There was no one at the camp, because there was no one left.

She'd sacrificed all her men on the Deep Roads.

She pointed to the entrance of some cave nearby, looking once more the stoic. Lance took a breath, held it in. He didn't like this. At all.

He approached the cave, hesitant. Cautiously, he peered in, holding up a fist to keep his party at bay.

Dwarf bodies lay on the floor, weapons and broken armor scattered about. Darkspawn and Golems were mixed in with the bodies, evidence of a massive battle having taken place.

Lance looked back at Branka. She didn't seem to be disturbed.

"I ran out of men," she said. "I needed time. I needed time to understand the traps and counter them. But my men abandoned me. I had to find some way to carry on."

Lance was horrified. Hespith had tried to warn him, had tried to let them know the depth of Branka's depravity. Oghren was just as shocked.

"She…" he muttered. "She gave the women to the Darkspawn so she could use a broodmother to get to the Anvil!"

"And she's doing the same to us," said Lance. He held his sword tightly.

"I guess old Branka didn't change a bit," said Oghren. He shook his head, frowning. "Well, Warden. What's the plan?"

Lance looked back down the long tunnel, past the dead bodies. He shrugged.

"We can't go back the way we came. And either way we need a Paragon's vote for Bhelen. I guess we have to follow her in if we want to win this war."

"Just hope it's worth it," Alistair said. Lance could only nod at that. He looked over at Morrigan, who still regarded him with that superior smirk of hers.

He stepped gingerly over the body of a Hurlock. He was pretty sure that there was no fear of it coming back to life to assail him, but just the same…

A few Golems lay to the side, shattered. He'd only ever heard the ancient stories of Golems, about how they stonewalled the Darkspawn. No pun intended.

To see three of them, broken against Dwarves and Darkspawn, was unsettling, to say the least. He was glad that he didn't have to fight them.

Cautiously, he entered a large chamber with a number of stationary Golems. The door leading to the chamber exit was sealed.

"What kind of puzzle-trap is this?" asked Alistair, tapping a Golem absently.

Those must have been the magic words.

The door behind them slammed shut, locking itself. The Golem came to life, reaching out to squish Alistair. And the unmistakable hiss of poison gas filled the room.


	49. Caridin

Lance crossed the room in a single bound, trying to keep his head above the gas.

He brought Starfang down on the Golem's arm, again and again. The Golem was made out of the thickest armor; Starfang could barely get through. Alistair struggled in the Golem grasp, trying to bring his sword down to do some damage.

The steel hit against the hardened Golem's shell with a useless _clang_. He tried it again, only managing to make sparks.

Lance hacked and sawed at the Golem's wrist, too focused on freeing his fellow Warden to take notice of the other hand reaching to grab him until he was being lifted off his feet.

"The eyes!" Lance shouted. "Go for the eyes!"

Alistair held his sword with both hands, calling out as the Golem threatened to crush them both. He shoved the blade into one of the Golem's brilliant blue eyes, twisting. The creature roared in fury, and Lance drove Starfang into its other eye, blinding it. It was a Golem though, and so was still able to hold the two humans in its stone fists.

A bolt of lightning struck it dead-center, followed closely by a second. The assault bored a hole into its chest, causing the Golem to topple over, releasing its prisoners.

Lance could see green poison rising from the floor, threatening to fill the room. Had he already inhaled some? Would his lungs collapse in a few moments?

Wynne raised her staff, called upon whatever mystical forces were responsible for such things, and Lance felt himself given a second wind. She was doing her best to keep them free from the poison's grasp, to buy them time.

A second Golem awoke, lumbering towards them. Lance had a good idea how this would play out.

"Trash 'em all," he shouted, and raised Starfang over his head with two hands, bringing it down on the Golem's head. The Star Metal was a nifty little thing. It remained sharp without maintenance. It was able to cut through bone and armor with such ease. The stone that encased the Golem was a lot thicker, and the arms refused to give with a single swipe.

The head, however, was much more susceptible to sheer force, and so crumbled with the application of a few smashing blows.

The Golem fell backwards, dead or otherwise out of commission. Lance felt horrible doing it.

The Dwarves had few enough Golems and would only risk them in the most dire circumstances. And here Lance was smashing through every Golem in the room. Such a shame.

"Morrigan, hit that one on the left. Wynne, get that one there! Leliana… stay out of the way!"

Oghren and Zevran were working together on one, the Elf using his speed and agility to distract it while Oghren delivered heavy axe blows to its rear. They had to think fast and act swiftly to kill the Golems before the room was full of poison and Wynne was left too drained to save them.

The last of the Golems fell to the floor; much of its chest was crumbled stone and dented iron. The far door unlatched itself and swung open.

They stumbled over each other as they fled, leaving the gas to fill up the smaller chamber and dissipate in the tunnel that followed. Lance led the way from the room, coughing a bit.

He looked over at Morrigan.

"Do you see what I was driving at earlier?"

"Do you see what _I_ was driving at?"

He grunted, straightened himself up. He looked down the hall to the next area. More Golems stood as watchful sentinels, lining the hall. The door taking them out was on the far side of the corridor. Lance had a very bad feeling about how this might play out.

He stepped into the hall, cautiously. The Golems were watching them, he knew. And that disturbed him.

"Warden," said Morrigan, hand on her hip in a very irate manner. Lance turned to listen to her, though he was more concerned with getting out of the Deep Roads as soon as he possibly could.

"What?"

"Let us dispense with this foolishness," she said, raising her staff and leveling it at the nearest Golem. "And get straight to the point."

Wintersbreath spat out ice, smashing into the Golem and chipping its shell. The Golem didn't move, apparently waiting for whatever traps the room held to be activated before reacting. Morrigan hit it with a mixture of lightening and fireballs, blowing a hole into its chest and rendering it permanently inert.

Lance sighed and started to smash the Golem nearest him. The others did likewise and set to destroying the stone constructs. It wasn't a glorious end, to be sure, but it wasn't something that could have been avoided.

When the last Golem was little more than dust on the floor, the door unsealed, and allowed him access to the next trap. Lance wondered what sort of mind had devised such a convoluted way to protect the Anvil. It would have been easier to just destroy it.

Lance stepped into the next chamber, holding his sword lightly. He figured that if they'd busted through that many Golems a few more would be nothing.

There was a stone platform in the center of the room, holding up a multi-faced stone… thing. He wondered what it was exactly, what it did. It was surrounded on four sides by anvils.

"What do we do now?" asked Lance. He kicked himself for speaking when the collection of stone faces reacted.

It spat out a shining light of energy. Summoning up spectral warriors. The Dwarves were not able to cast magic, so this was something that took Lance off guard.

Morrigan was unimpressed. She shoved Lance to the side as she stepped forward. She waved her staff in the air, clacking her heels together in a manner that made Lance think of dancing. He'd never been very good at dancing, had disappointed a great many Ladies at court, and so wondered if Morrigan would ever be the type to want to dance.

The air around them snapped and crackled. The hair on his arms stood on end. He recognized this ability. It was the same power that had obliterated their enemy at Redcliffe.

A Tempest was summoned, lightning creating thunderclaps in the underground lair. The spirits were decimated before they could charge. The stone faces were shattered under the onslaught. Lance crossed his arms indignantly. It wasn't exactly fair.

She was this great and powerful mage and made it look easy to just create lightning storms and stamp out the approaching enemy.

"You know," he said, when the storm ceased. "It isn't so easy to swing around a sword all day."

"That is a funny thought. You make it look so easy."

"I try," he grunted and went on ahead.

It was the last of the traps. The door exiting the room led to a wide section of the Deep Roads. They were miles away from Orzammar by now, in some lost section of the ancient highway. He wondered if they were even still under the Frostbacks.

A number of the Golems still stood, watchful. And one even approached them.

"You," it said, shocking Lance. It was speaking. The Golem was speaking. "I am Caridin."

"The Paragon?" asked Oghren, disbelieving.

"Yes," said Caridin. "You have bested my traps, strangers. No doubt you come seeking the Anvil of the Void."

"We need it to negotiate with Paragon Branka," said Lance. He couldn't tell what emotion Caridin might be feeling at this moment, a Golem being a Golem.

"Hear me, stranger. The Anvil is a tool never to be used again. It can only destroy."

"The Golems held back the Darkspawn," said Lance. "The Dwarves are barely hanging on without them."

"I know this, and I do not say this lightly when I tell you that the Anvil must not be used," said Caridin. "When I created the Anvil, when I made the first Golems, we used only volunteers; those willing to sacrifice their lives to defend our kingdoms."

"Dwarves?" Lance whispered. "Those things are Dwarves?"

"They are. I did not realize the horror I had wrought until the king began conscripting souls to be made Golems. Casteless, criminals, political rivals, and anyone who would oppose him. And when I dared to stand up to him, I was made a Golem."

Lance was horrified. The Anvil of the Void had been sealed away by Caridin to prevent its abuse. And Branka wanted to bring it back. She wanted to create more Golems. And how long would it be before the volunteers weren't enough? How long before Bhelen or whatever king came after him decided to press people into service? And what if the Darkspawn were held back, finally? How long before the Dwarves turned their eyes to the surface?

No. The Anvil couldn't be salvaged. Caridin would no doubt help him in supporting Bhelen. Branka was insane, and she wouldn't stop.

"What do you need me to do?" Lance asked. Caridin seemed to relax, if that was possible for a Golem.

"The Anvil must be destroyed, but I cannot do it."

"I will."

There was a shrill cry from behind; Branka having entered the room.

"No! The Anvil must not be destroyed! Orzammar needs it! I've come so far!"

Oghren turned about, eyes wide.

"Branka, would you listen to yourself? Would you listen to what you've become?"

"Oghren, you are too short-sighted. Think of the glory, think of the power! We could reclaim all of our lost holdings!"

"Branka, you're nuts," said Oghren. "You have to realize that."

Branka shouted, wordlessly. She raised a rod.

"Come to me, Golems."

Caridin bellowed, "A control rod? Stop her at once!"

The Golems in the room split into two groups; those with Branka and those with Caridin. Lance drew his blade and leapt for Branka.

She did something, he didn't know what.

He was thrown back from where she stood, landing roughly on his back. He still held onto his sword, though he wasn't left in a position to use it. The Golems were stomping and pounding around them, tearing into each other and making a mess of the place.

Caridin himself tore apart two of the opposing Golems.

He approached Branka and smashed through whatever defense she was using. It couldn't have been magic, could it?

She was at Caridin's mercy, though she was not completely without defense. She raised a tough looking axe and began chopping, hacking at his fingers until he drew back.

Lance took it as his opening, rushing Branka and engaging her. They clashed, her axe working to parry his blows. He almost had the upper hand. Almost. She knocked him back again, and raised her axe for the killing blow.

Oghren came to the rescue then, striking her on the head with the pommel of his axe. She fell backwards, dropped her axe as she grasped for her bleeding head.

"Branka," Oghren said, raising the axe above his head with both hands. "I'm sorry it came to this."

He brought it down, and the Golems working against Caridin stopped dead.

Lance stood up straight, watching Oghren. He looked pale, and stared at Branka's corpse for a long while. Lance didn't disturb him.

"Thank you, friend," said Caridin. "You have done Orzammar a greater service than you realize."

"I did what had to be done," said Lance. Caridin nodded.

"You did. I owe you a great deal, friends."

"Do you think I could get your support to help a Dwarf be made King by the Assembly?"

"Certainly," said Caridin. "I will craft for you a great crown, one that could not have come but from a Paragon."

Lance allowed him to work, sitting on the ground as Caridin set to creating this crown. He was a Paragon, alright. It took him less than an hour to use the Anvil of the Void to create this golden crown.

He approached when he had finished, satisfied.

"This a worthy piece," he said. "Now, friend, if you would do me one favor."

Lance nodded, stood. He went to the Anvil, hefted the big hammer Caridin had used to craft the crown. He looked back at Caridin, who watched on with what Lance assumed to be anticipation. And Lance destroyed the Anvil of the Void, forever.

Caridin gave him thanks, before allowing himself to be destroyed in the magma down below.

"Well, Warden," said Oghren, still a bit pale. "You ready to settle that mess with the Assembly?"

"As I'll ever be," said Lance. And he put an arm around Morrigan, possessively. She struggled against him for merely a moment, before she relaxed and accepted that things would just have to be this way.


	50. A Promise in the Dark

Bhelen had been made king. He'd executed Harrowmont for his troubles, something that Lance wasn't too thrilled about. But he'd at least promised to get the armies mobilized, and that was what counted. Lance just kept reminded himself that he was a Grey Warden, and the politics weren't his problem. It almost worked.

Regardless, they were back in the fresh air of the surface, something that made Oghren quite uneasy.

"Disgusting Dwarf! That was _my_ scarf!" Morrigan yelled, throwing down her pack.

"Sorry," Oghren offered. "But this damn surface air tickles my nose."

"I do not care. That was my scarf, not a handkerchief."

"Well, in that case, I'll let you borrow mine next time you need. Just ask."

"If you have a handkerchief then why did you not use it?"

"It was dirty."

She gave a noise of disgust, cursing loudly to herself and tossed the scarf into the fire. Lance was lying back on a stump, with his pack for cushion. Leliana was stirring the soup, though Lance had had quite enough of soup for the rest of his life.

"Oghren," he called. The Dwarf looked at him, grinning from ear to ear. "Leave her alone."

He shrugged and returned to his own squat tent, laughing heartily. Morrigan sat a few feet away from him, still fuming. He reached out, barely able to tap her knee with his fingertips.

"You okay?"

"Shut up," she said, arms crossed.

"Don't bother with the Dwarf," said Lance. "I'll talk to him."

"'Tis not the Dwarf that bothers me."

"Something else?"

She grunted. Lance rubbed his eyes, tired of taking time out of his day to deal with his companions' issues. His own relationship problems were starting to take a toll on his psyche as it was. He just knew a mental breakdown was around the corner.

So he sat up, scooted over to where she was.

"Talk to me, love," he said. He put his hands on her knees, trying to be as caring as possible. "Come on. Straight talk."

She looked at him, narrowed her eyes. She cleared her throat, nervous about something but unwilling to show it.

"We have almost completed our mission, have we not?"

"Well we still have to track down the Dalish. But yeah. After that we'll have our army."

"And then you shall battle the Archdemon."

"Yes."

She put her own hands on his knees, looking over his shoulder at the others that were gathered around the fire. Her eyes flickered to where her tent would have been, had she bothered to set it up. She'd stopped doing so a long time ago, preferring to stay with Lance in his tent.

"Do you know what will happen once the Archdemon is dead?"

Lance tilted his head, inquisitively.

"Well, I guess Alistair over there will be king, and then… I don't know. Maybe I'll be doing Grey Warden stuff. What do Wardens do when there is no Blight to fight?"

"So, you will live through the battle then? This is what you believe?"

"Absolutely. I mean, not to sound foolhardy. I know that death is always a possibility when it comes to a battle, but I'm confident. I have something to come back for," he said, and he touched her cheek gently. She shivered, and he wondered why.

"I see," she said simply. "Warden, do not get so attached."

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Because it will only lead to you regretting this."

"I won't."

"You will."

He shook his head, smiling at the ridiculousness of it.

"Come on, Morrigan," said Lance. "Don't keep up with this. I know how you feel about me. Why is it so hard to say?"

"Because… it is folly. It will only lead to your heartbreak."

"Maybe that's a risk I'm willing to take."

She huffed. "Will you leave me out of the battle, too?"

He looked at her a long moment. He frowned, and his grip on her tightened.

"Yes."

She slapped his hands away, stood.

"No," she said, stabbing a finger at him. "No. You will not."

He stood up, grabbed her roughly, spun her to face him. She was angry, and so was he, and he was glad for this. It was a good opportunity to lay everything bare, to put all their cards on the table. In some ways, he relished it.

"Morrigan, I want to keep you safe," he said. "I won't put you in any more risk. Not if I can help it."

"Warden, you _need_ me. Whether or not you know it, you _need_ me."

"Yes," he said flatly. "I need you. I need you more than I've ever needed anything in my life. And if something happened to you…"

"I cannot sit idly by," she said. "I cannot allow you to endanger yourself. Not alone."

"Dammit, Morrigan, would you just listen to me? Maker, I'm trying to tell you that you're the most valuable thing in my life. I can't lose you."

He stepped close to her, grabbed her shoulders and pulled her closer. He was trying not to froth, to keep himself under control. He put his forehead against hers, looked her right in the eye.

"I cannot lose you. No matter what else happens, you are the only thing that matters to me. I won't lose you. I simply will not allow it. I… will die before I let it happen."

"And if you were to 'lose' me?"

"Then I'd be dead already."

She slapped him, hard enough to leave a red mark. His left eye became teary, but he didn't tend to it, preferring to appear stoic.

"No! You will _live_. I do not care what your feelings are. You will live."

She pulled away from him, shoving him roughly. They were aware that their companions' eyes were upon them, though they did not care.

"Morrigan," he said, watching her retreat to their tent. "This conversation isn't over."

"Grey Warden," she said. "I will present to you two choices: we can enter this tent and spend the whole of the evening apologizing to each other to the point of exhaustion or we can continue this discussion until we reach a conclusion. I will warn you now, however, that whatever you decide against will not happen again for a great length of time."

"That's not fair."

"No, 'tis not."

Lance glanced over his shoulder at his comrades, who all pretended to be busy. They were of course listening intently.

"Damn it," he muttered and followed her inside, unbuckling his belt.

She made good on her promise and apologized all night. Repeatedly.

The others were left in various states of annoyance, either seeing weakness in their hitherto brilliant and brave leader, or upset that they would not be getting a full night's rest.

Lance and Morrigan didn't separate for quite some time.

It was late when they finally did, the fire having died long ago and the moon providing the only illumination.

They lay close together, Lance still feeling rather frisky, Grey Warden endurance and all. He held Morrigan close, though she was trying to sleep, kissing her neck and shoulders. She'd let her hair down, something she only did in private. She told him that it was more comfortable that way, that she liked the feeling of him playing with it while they were together.

And he did like touching her hair, something he hardly ever got to do. He ran his fingers through it while she was busy with him, and he cuddled close with her to get a scent of it.

"You're real pretty," he said, kissing her cheek, one hand on her side. She sighed in mock annoyance.

"Do you ever stop?"

"I thought you liked compliments."

"Oh, I do. But you are near insatiable, Warden."

"Not true. You satiate me. What about you? Are you sated?"

She laughed to herself, turning to look at him. It was dreamy, the way she did that. She was like a completely different person – her black hair sprawled out on the furs covering their tent, golden eyes bright, eyelids heavy with sleep, a small smile on her lips.

"I am quite satisfied, Warden," she said, smirking. "Although I would prefer it if you tried harder next time."

"Say no more," he said, and he maneuvered himself so that he was on top of her. She laughed loudly, hoping to wake the rest of the camp so that she could once again brag to them her conquest of the Warden. He sometimes found himself trying to silence her, with words or with kisses. It never worked though, and he was greeted with deeply annoyed and exhausted looks from the rest of the party.

Oh, well. Too bad for them.

She was laughing, and it was music to him. He was unsure if this was what true love felt like, but it was pretty damn close for him.

He again thought of Marna, and of their last night together. He was sorry that he couldn't have saved her but he was sure that she was happy wherever she was now, happy that he was happy. And he was suddenly okay with the fact that his family was dead. It was something that happened, and had made him stronger.

He would kill Arl Howe, regardless, but it was okay. He was okay for once.

She stopped him suddenly, and he breathed frustration on her abdomen, her legs over his shoulders.

"What?" he asked in his best begging voice. She was smiling down at him, but he could tell that there was something weighing heavily on her mind.

"Do not die," she said simply. He looked at her seriously.

And he shook his head, sympathetic as he could be.

"I won't."

She put a hand on his head, stroked him gently with her thumb.

"Warden, if I were to admit my feelings for you – if I were to have such feelings – then I would want your promise that whatever happens you will not die."

"Ever?"

"Ever."

He looked at her a long moment, trying to discern through the dark what her intentions were. He couldn't. And so, absently kissing her navel, he nodded.

"I'm staying alive," he said. "For you."

"That is a promise?"

"Yes."

"You keep your promises?"

"Always."

She nodded, biting her lip in thought. And, one hand on his head, with that seductive smile that sent Lance into a fury of lust, she urged him between her legs.

When they once again lay in the aftermath, a tangle of arms and legs, her head close to his, looking into his eyes for some cue, they spoke of their affection for one another, and she admitted to her trepidation at caring for him in the manner that she did.

She told him that she was raised to revile such emotion, that it only ever existed in Flemeth's bitter lessons as a reminder of what she could never have. He told her that Flemeth only ever meant to keep her docile for her own ends. And Morrigan agreed, and she told him that she would try harder to be like him, to be… human.

"Morrigan," he said, some time later. "I don't care what anyone else says. I don't. You are the only person I care about."

"And you, Warden, are the only person _I_ care about."

"You don't know how much that means to me," said Lance. He put a hand on her shoulder; he squeezed lightly, kneading the muscle. She shook her head, reaching up to hold his head in her hands.

"I do," she said. "Because it means so much to me."

"When you took off for the Deep Roads," said Lance, voice shaking. "I just thought of all the things that could happen to you. I don't want to think about that. I don't want to worry about you. I know you're strong, I know it. But I can't stand to have you put in danger."

"I feel the same," she said. "I only tried to protect you. To keep you safe from needless harm. You are a Grey Warden. Death and violence are what you live in now. I would shield you from it, if I could."

He nodded to her. They wouldn't budge. No matter what, they simply could not budge.

"I'll make you a deal," he said. She gave him a look, eager to hear what compromise he could possibly offer. "No matter what happens, we stick together."

"Always?"

"Where you go, I go."

She hesitated, thinking it over. And then she nodded.

"Okay, Warden. A deal."

He smiled wide, happy beyond all understanding. She did not. She looked thoughtful still and she put her hands on his shoulders.

She didn't say anything, and that surprised him. Instead she pushed him onto his side; put her mouth to his collarbone. He felt panic for a moment, confused. But then it became a pleasant experience. She sucked on his shoulder, bit him gently. She stayed like that for long minutes, not that he minded.

When she finally emerged, placing soft kisses on his cheek, she regarded him with what he hoped was love.

She touched the spot on his shoulder, a red mark now evident even in the dark of their tent.

"You are mine," she whispered. He smiled at her.

"I thought you had no designs on my independence?"

"I lied."

He touched it as gently as he could manage, afraid that pressure would make it disappear.

"'Tis my mark," she said. "On you."

He didn't say anything. And that surprised her. Instead, he pushed her onto her side; put his mouth to her collarbone.


	51. Shale

"Ho, there friend!" called a young man, stepping carefully towards them. "You are travelers, are you not?"

"Yes," said Lance, hand on his sword cautiously. "What do you want?"

"Look, friends," said the man. "I've recently come into the possessions of a Golem control rod."

"And?"

"And I don't want it," said the man. Lance squinted at him.

"What in the hell are you driving at?"

"I paid a ton for it and it's been nothing but useless. I'm hoping to get to Orlais before the Blight sweeps through here and I don't have time to go south to collect the Golem."

"So you're selling it?"

"Oh, no! I'm giving it away," the man said, dead serious. "I don't want some bandit mistaking it for a valuable gem. I'll give you the rod freely, and even tell you the command phrase."

Lance looked back at his party, and they all looked just as confused as he. Leliana gave him a nod, silently preparing an arrow.

"Okay," he said, and reached out to take the rod. The man grinned broadly the instant he was relieved of it.

"The command phrase is 'dulef gar'."

"Where do I get this Golem?"

"A village called Honnleath," said the man. "South of here."

Lance nodded. He looked at the others.

"Care to make a detour?"

No not really. But a Golem did have its uses, and they wouldn't turn away such a powerful ally. So they turned south to Honnleath, hoping that they wouldn't run into the horde while they were there. The Darkspawn were spreading, their Taint corrupting the Wilds and parts north.

The village was quaint, if that wasn't too generic a description. It had a number of windmills and seemed to be preparing a harvest of grain. Cold winds were coming in from further south, where snow had already fallen.

They came up the road from the south of the village, and Lance hoped that they might be greeted with apple pies and joyous parades. It was a hope too easily dashed, of course.

Lance looked up as they approached, at a lamppost standing just before the village gate. A family had been strung up, hands tied behind their backs so they couldn't struggle.

"Darkspawn sense tingling," said Alistair, drawing his sword. Lance did the same. He could smell smoke now, and saw black, acrid fumes rising from the village. He charged.

A trio of villagers came scrambling down the path, desperate to escape the Darkspawn chasing them. Lance pushed past them, buying them time to escape by slashing his blades at the Darkspawn. His companions filled in behind him, and they assaulted the raiding party.

The Darkspawn called and screeched, falling to blades and arrows and magic. He cut left and right, beheading the squat Genlocks. Hurlocks rushed him, their black blades waving. He made them into paste.

The village was too far gone. They couldn't save it. A large tower had been toppled, and was burning in the village center. Fires had spread all around. Bodies lay in piles. It was too bad.

Lance pulled Starfang from the center of one very agitated Hurlock, kicking him to the ground where he would bleed out. He made sure that there were no more Darkspawn to take care of before moving to the Golem in Honnleath. It must have been treated as something of a novelty by the village, standing in the center with flowers growing all around it. Bird seed had been thrown about, to attract the birds to its shoulders.

He approached the Golem, eager to get back on the road. Seeing the Darkspawn devastate a Ferelden village made him all the more eager to finish this.

He raised the control rod over his head, drawing his lips into a thin line.

"Dulef gar!" he announced. And a moment passed. They stared at the Golem, waiting eagerly.

Nothing happened.

"Ahem. Dulef gar!"

Nothing.

"Well isn't this some ol' bull-"

"Perhaps we should search these houses," said Morrigan. "This Golem belonged to someone."

"Sure," said Lance. "Why not?"

The village was empty, everyone who could walk having already left or been ripped to shreds. He started checking doors, searching for one that was open. He didn't really like the idea of rooting through houses for the next few hours, but he didn't want to leave the village empty handed.

He tried the door at the base of shattered tower, assuming that the building had to be something important. And if you were going to have any sort of information on a Golem…

The door creaked open, and Lance could immediately feel the Darkspawn within. He waved to the others.

He eased into the building, keeping his eyes scanning everything around him, looking for any sign of ambush.

The door led into a basement, where a number of bookshelves sat gathering dust. If anyone had ever lived there, it was a long time ago. Lance could feel the Darkspawn, though he couldn't see them. A small flight of stairs indicated a deeper section of the building, and Lance went on ahead.

The Darkspawn were there, alright.

A number of the villagers had huddled behind some sort of magical field, not unlike the ones he'd seen in the Fade. The Darkspawn pounded uselessly against it, trying to enter so they could kill the remaining villagers.

A hulking Hurlock, clad in more ornate armor than Lance thought Darkspawn could make, sensed the Wardens. It turned, growling when it saw them.

"Here we go," said Lance. There were only a dozen Darkspawn, and the close quarters gave him and Starfang the advantage.

Magic flashed behind him, skewering a Genlock. Morrigan at her finest. Lance squared off with the Hurlock, though it didn't last long. Too bad; it was almost fun to duel it.

When the Darkspawn were little more than stains on the ground, one of the villagers spoke up.

"Oh, thank the Maker for you," he said. "Did the Bann send you? Where are the rest of the soldiers?"

"Were not from the Bann," said Lance. "I'm a Grey Warden."

"That explains a lot. But if the Bann didn't send you, then what are you doing here, Warden?"

"I'm here about that Golem outside."

The man nodded, looking a little disappointed. "Shale? I see…"

He raised his hand, touched the magical field and in a flash it was lifted. The villagers that had huddled in the basement with him hurried off, likely trying to see about their fellows and family. Lance reached out cautiously, touched the air that the field had occupied. Satisfied that it was gone he stepped forward to speak with the man.

"Name's Matthias," he said. Lance extended his hand to shake. "You want Shale?"

"I have the control rod," said Lance. "But the command phrase wouldn't work."

"You were probably given a fake," said Matthias. "Mother hated the thing and tried to get rid of the control rod when it killed father."

"It killed your father?"

"Yes. Mother must have sold the control rod with a fake command phrase. I know the real one but…"

"But what?"

"Warden, please. My daughter went down deeper into the cellar, and I'm scared for her. My father's workshop has so many traps there, we never went down. A man followed after her, but he hasn't come back."

"You want me to find your daughter in exchange for the command phrase?"

"Please, Warden."

Lance sighed. He looked back at his group. Morrigan gave him a subtle gesture, one finger across her throat. Her intentions were clear; beat it out of the man. He sighed and shook his head.

"Okay, Matthias," he said. "I'll find her."

Matthias looked he was about to cry with joy, unable to thank the Warden enough. Lance raised a hand to silence him, and descended, by himself, into the depths of the cellar.

He guessed that a mage had once lived there. It would explain Matthias' shield trick and the general strangeness of the cellar. It was thick with dust, making it very difficult to breathe. Had he not been wearing armor, he would have pulled the collar of his shirt over his nose.

The dank cellar seemed to have once been some sort of study. It gave way to a yawning chasm, and Lance didn't dare wonder where it led, nor did he wonder about the sturdiness of the boards bridging the chasm, lest he jinx it.

The body of the man sent to find the girl lay still in the center of the basement's study. He was dusty, but there wasn't a mark on him.

"How did…" Lance wondered aloud. Just as he feared, he jinxed it.

The piles of dust surrounding the room burst alive, creatures rising out of them.

Dust Wraiths.

He stared down the largest of them, fully repulse by the mouth-like visage its body had taken. Starfang hummed softly. He let the Wraiths make the first move.

There were only three of them.

He stabbed behind him, feeling the creatures fall to dust again. He stepped right, avoiding a clawed swipe. With a flick of his wrist, the wraith dissolved. The last, the largest of them, charged at him. Lance dropped to a knee, letting it pass overhead and slashing upwards.

The room filled with dust, sending Lance into a fit of coughing and sneezing. He inspected the room, and left once he was satisfied that he'd slain the wraiths.

The cellar went even deeper, if that were possible. By now Lance had the impression that whatever crazy loon had owned the place had built a cavern under the entire village. A dangerous thing, and altogether strange.

But the cellar did eventually come to a halt, where he found the little girl.

"Amalia," said Lance. "Your dad sent me to get you."

"Oh, that's okay," said the little girl, leaning lovingly over a cat. "I'm fine where I am. Kitty and I are playing a game."

"Sure thing. Let's you and the cat go back to your dad," said Lance. He reached out to take her hand, to guide her back over the treacherous path to the basement proper. She shook her head.

"Kitty and I are playing a game," she said. "And if you aren't going to play then please leave. Kitty finds you distracting."

"Say what now?"

"It is true," said the cat. The cat was talking now. Despite the fact that the last few months had equated to an adventure novel for Lance, a talking cat still managed to be the most shocking thing he'd ever seen.

"Whoa," he whispered.

"Amalia will not listen to you," said the cat. "She loves only me now, and you are a stranger."

"Talking cat?" Lance muttered. Kitty licked herself and meowed.

"Kitty says Grandpa Wilhelm locked her down here," said Amalia. "Isn't that horrible?"

"It sure is," said Lance. "Just awful."

"I will make you a deal, stranger," said the cat. Her eyes were glowing bright purple. Desire demon. "I long to see the world through mortal eyes, and you wish to return the girl to her father. If you deactivate the magical barrier that traps me, and allow me to possess the girl, then I will return to her father."

Lance thought for a minute. He wanted that Golem. But was it worth this? He couldn't let the girl be possessed, couldn't let the demon take control of her. What chaos would it bring?

"Can I see your true form first?" he asked. The cat cocked its head.

"Why?"

"I would like to add a condition to our deal."

"What condition?"

Lance smirked at the demon, licked his lips in a lascivious manner. He winked at the demon, and it meowed loudly.

"A mortal pleasure?" she asked. "Certainly…"

She transformed into her full size, in all her semi-womanly splendor. Amalia wasn't disturbed, the demon's hold on her too powerful.

"Amalia, dear," said the demon. "Go play in the corner. The man and I have grown-up things to discuss."

"Okay," said Amalia, and she trotted off to hide behind a pillar. Lance swallowed the lump in his throat. The demon approached him, reaching out with a clawed hand to run a finger under his jaw line. He had a scary moment of déjà vu.

"What would you like?" asked the demon.

Lance smiled, casually reaching for his belt.

"How about some head?" he said, and lashed out with his belt knife. He lodged it deep in her demon's skull, twisting to crack the hard spectral bone. She flopped to the ground in a heap, twitching. Lance removed his knife and wiped it off on the demon's tabard.

"That was funny," he said to himself. "I gotta tell Alistair that one."

He called out for Amalia, trying to sound as nice as he possibly could. She stepped out cautiously from behind a pillar, wide-eyed and fearful. The demon's hold on her had vanished, and she was left quite confused and quite scared.

"Are you a good guy?" she asked. He realized how frightening he must look, covered in dirty armor, wielding weapons and standing over the corpse of a creature from her nightmares. He offered her his hand.

"I'm a Grey Warden," he said. And she took it.

He led her back to her father, carrying her past the most dangerous sections of the cellar and past the dead man's corpse. He didn't want her to see.

He came to the conclusion then, as he was carrying her to where father stood, that this was why he was a Grey Warden. This was what he was protecting. It was all worth it to save little girls from danger, to be the good guy.

Matthias was overjoyed to have his "little butterfly" back, and held her tightly. He thanked the Warden profusely and told him the command phrase.

The Golem had responded, at long last, though it was nothing something that Lance expected. The Golems in the Deep Roads had been constructs, not at all interested in speaking, save Caridin who was a special case. This creature, however, was most unusual.

"So someone has at long last found my control rod," it said. Lance took a careful step back. "And it is not even a mage."

"You, uh," Lance muttered. Morrigan made a noise of distaste.

"One would think that you would be more grateful to the man that allowed your freedom, Golem."

"Ah, so there is a mage. Charming."

"Hello," said Lance finally. He cleared his throat, a little uncomfortable at having to face down a Golem. "I am Lance."

"Hm. So it has a name. So do I. I am Shale," it said. "Though you would think it was 'Golem' given the number of times I was referred to as such."

"Got a personality there," said Lance. "That's… refreshing."

"Indeed. Tell me, what does it have planned for me now that it has awakened me."

Lance blinked. "Well I hadn't really thought about it."

"Thrilling. Does it have the control rod? It must if it has awakened me."

"Right here," said Lance, holding up the rod. Shale hummed, or growled.

"That is strange. It is holding the control rod but… Order me to do something."

Lance looked around, wondering exactly what he could order it to do. You never can be ready for these types of things, especially when you're put on the spot.

"Uh," he looked over at Oghren. "Throw Oghren."

"Hey, no tossing the Dwarf," Oghren growled. Shale snorted.

"I do not feel the compulsion to do so," it said. "Could this mean… the control rod is damaged?"

Lance reached for his blade, having the niggling fear that he knew what was about to happen.

"So what? You go on a killing spree?"

"Do not be ridiculous," said Shale. "Although I wouldn't mind killing all those damnable pigeons."

Shale looked around, examining the destruction around it. The Golem looked Lance right in the eye.

"Did the Darkspawn do this?"

"Yes."

"The Darkspawn are a most hated enemy," said Shale. "Though I do wish I had been able to see the full extent of the villagers' torment. That would have been fun."

"Take it you didn't like the villagers?"

"Familiarity breeds contempt," said Shale. "And after thirty years these villagers had become all too familiar to me."

"Thirty years!" Leliana declared. "Oh, you poor dear! That would be really, really boring."

"I'm a Grey Warden," said Lance. "I kill Darkspawn."

"Then I think I shall follow it for a time," said Shale. "Though it would be wise not to assume delusions of control."

"Of course not," said Lance. Shale came stomping forward, waiting politely for Lance to lead the way.

With a great deal of nervousness, Lance turned his back to the Golem, and started walking, shuddering for the first few miles every time the Golem made one smashing, stomping step.


	52. The Dalish

Lance soon came to regret taking the Golem along. They'd been on the road for three days, headed towards the Brecilian Forest while avoiding the Blight. They stopped briefly in Redcliffe; to take stock of what had happened in Ferelden at large while they'd been on the road and to restock their supplies. Shale had made a game out of snarling at villagers and stomping their chickens.

He had made a mental note to keep Shale out of any settlement they might pass through.

Shale had asked "the swamp witch" several pointed questions that inevitably led to Lance walking far ahead of the group, red-faced and muttering to himself.

"The swamp witch made very unusual noises last night," Shale began. Morrigan laughed to herself.

"Did I now?"

"Yes. Was the swamp witch wounded?"

"No…"

"Was the swamp witch casting magic?"

"Of a sort."

"The swamp witch and the Grey Warden were both casting magic, then?"

"Oh, my yes."

"But the Grey Warden is not a mage, is it? Was the swamp witch teaching it?"

"I have no need to teach him anything. He knows quite enough already."

"Of magic?"

"Did I say magic? I meant to say-"

"That's enough," said Lance, taking several long strides to distance himself from the others. Morrigan laughed behind him and proceeded to describe their late night activities in detail, causing Alistair to shove his fingers in his ears, Leliana to blush and avert her eyes from Lance's back and for Wynne to begin muttering to herself. Oghren and Zevran had remained quite interested, asking questions and swapping suggestions.

"The Grey Warden and the swamp witch attempt this often, then?" asked Shale. Morrigan nodded.

"Quite. I am almost insatiable when it comes to my… proclivities, and the Warden is more than willing to take care of me."

"Golems have no needs."

"No? I pity the Golems, then."

"So…" said Oghren. "What did he do with your legs?"

Morrigan gave an annoyed sigh and stepped further away from the Dwarf. She turned, though, to tease Shale one last time.

"I am feeling the need even now," she said. "Perhaps I should borrow our Grey Warden?"

She playfully tugged the Warden to the side of the road, kissing him as lewdly as she could before the group. He was quite embarrassed, though he did not shy away.

The trip was not all entertainment, though.

They came across the village that had once been Lothering. It was chilling.

Leliana fell to her knees at the sight, tears falling to the burnt ground. Lance stared on, feeling the same burning hatred for the Darkspawn he'd carried with him for so long. He knelt next to her, put his arms around her to comfort her.

Even Morrigan was silenced by the sight.

Lance whispered to Leliana, so low that he could not be heard by the others. He made a promise. A promise to kill all the Darkspawn.

They passed through the remnants of the village, curling their noses at the stench of burnt flesh.

Lance kept a firm hold of Leliana as they passed through, several times having to hug her to him to prevent her running to the ruins of the Chantry. She remained somber throughout the rest of their journey, crying softly sometimes. Lance was there for here, and he gave up time with Morrigan to comfort the girl.

Morrigan had become a little jealous of this, and sometimes found herself wishing that she could claim some tragedy to have the Warden rushing to comfort her.

The Brecilian Forest was supposed to be haunted. The Veil was thin there, and spirits and demons passed through freely. Lance found it a little humorous that he'd yet to come across a forest that wasn't enchanted.

Of course, finding the Dalish was a trick unto itself. They didn't often announce their presence, being ever wary of humans after the whole destroyed homeland thing. Lance didn't particularly understand it, seeing as it was centuries past, but he supposed all the tales he'd heard were a bit colored, much like the tales of Orlais.

They wondered on the edge of the forest, not entirely sure if they should enter. The Brecilian Forest covered a miles-wide expanse and the chances of finding the Dalish were slim while the chances of getting lost were high. He didn't particularly like the idea of wandering into talking trees.

"Zevran," said Lance. "You're an Elf. Find your kinfolk."

"I am sorry, boss," said Zevran. "But I am not an Elf-seeking assassin. I was born and raised in an Antivan whorehouse."

"Explains a lot."

"But my mother was Dalish."

"You don't say?"

"Yes. She fell in love with a woodcarver, but he soon died. And thus I was raised in a whorehouse."

"That's awful," said Lance. He looked at Zevran. "Andraste, that's horrid."

"Oh, it's not so bad," said Zevran. "The Antivan Crows have been good to me and gave me a better life than I could have hoped for."

"But you abandoned them."

"I didn't say the best life I could have hoped for."

"I see. I'm glad you're with us then," said Lance. With a smirk he added, "Even if you are an Elf."

"Funny. I will tell you that one thing I do miss; Dalish gloves. I had a pair, and I treasured them."

"What happened?"

"Eh, the Crows, you know. They wouldn't allow us to keep possessions during my training. So they took them. I always felt like they brought me close to my heritage."

"Maybe we can buy a pair in the Dalish camp? If we ever find them, that is."

"Oh, I think we'll find them soon enough," said Zevran.

An arrow hissed by Lance's ear, lodging itself in a tree to his left. He reached for his blade, but a second arrow smacked against his scabbard, telling him not to.

"Stop, _shemlen_," an angry Elf woman called. He scanned the tree line, unable to see her. That was the point of the Dalish, he imagined. She stepped out of the trees, seeming to take form only once she willed it so. She had a bow raised to him, and no doubt had comrades aiming at his fellows. She was attractive, in the way that Elves were. Her face was tattooed with strange Dalish symbols. She had an altogether intimidating appearance, though she was also mysteriously sexy.

"How are you doing?" Lance asked, trying to sound as affable as he could. She frowned.

"What are you doing here? The Dalish are camped here."

"We're looking for the Dalish."

"I find that hard to believe, _shemlen_. What business could you have with the Dalish?"

"I am a Grey Warden," said Lance. The Elf laughed aloud, derisively. It seemed to be a running theme for him.

"A Grey Warden? Can you prove it, _shemlen_?"

"You know, I'm really starting to dislike that word," said Lance. "You can stop any time now."

She snorted. "How unlike a human to make demands. Can you prove it or not?"

"Prove it? What, are you gonna tell me you're the Queen of Antiva so you can have sex with Morrigan, too?"

"What?"

"I can't prove it, so you'll just have to take my word on it."

She hesitated, keeping the arrow aimed right for his chest. He didn't know if his armor would have stopped it, but he wasn't eager to find out. She glanced into the woods, some sort of subtle signal, and she lowered her bow.

"I'll take you to the Keeper. He will decide if you are Grey Wardens," she said. "But remember, our bows are still trained on you."

"Sure thing," said Lance. He looked back at his company, and they all shared the same mixture of annoyance and apathy as he. Getting threatened with death wasn't anything new for them. He wondered if the Dalish would be awed by such knowledge.

She led them right to their Keeper, some sort of Dalish bigwig. He was tall for an Elf, bald. He had an air of calm about him, as though he were unable of extreme emotion. He was a mage, judging by his robes and his staff. A pretty young Elf stood next to him, watching the approaching group curiously.

"These people claim to be Grey Wardens, Keeper," said the woman, bowing to the bald Elf. He smiled pleasantly at her and regarded the group impassively.

"_Ma serannas,_ Mithra," said the Keeper. "Return to your post."

She bowed and stepped away from the outsiders. Lance watched her, sure that she would order a few of her men to keep weapons trained on them from afar. The Keeper smiled to them.

"_Andaran atish'an,_ Grey Wardens," said the Keeper. "I am Zathrian."

"I am Lance. Pleasure to meet you."

"Manners? And from a _shemlen_? Curious indeed. I presume you've come to warn about the Blight?"

"I take it you're already aware of it," Lance said. Zathrian remained smiling.

"Yes. Unfortunately I do not think we are in a position to honor the treaties we made centuries ago."

Alistair snorted. "You have problems of your own? What are the chances?"

Lance was inclined to agree. It seemed as though no one they'd come across had been in any position to aid them. It sure made being a Grey Warden a lot more difficult.

"Please, Wardens," said Zathrian, stepping aside to lead them across the camp. They followed, Lance with his arms crossed in muted annoyance. He took them to some sort of makeshift field hospital. An Elf nurse tended to a good number of wounded Dalish hunters. Blood was everywhere, and they moaned and groaned in excruciating pain.

"What happened?" asked Lance.

"Our hunters were ambushed in the forest," said Zathrian. "By werewolves. I have those few left able to fight guarding our camp from attack."

"I see," said Lance. "Is there any way your men can be cured?"

Zathrian looked at him, eyes narrowed. "It is no trivial task."

With a self-sure smile, Lance said, "I'm good at non-trivial tasks."

"If you insist," said Zathrian, smiling. He had been pretty transparent about his intentions, but Lance needed the support of the Dalish regardless. "The only way to cure this illness is to find Witherfang, a spirit wolf that dwells in the heart of the forest."

"Sounds simple."

"You must bring back its heart."

"Of course."

"All the hunters that I have sent have not returned successful."

"Sure."

"You are brave, Grey Warden."

Lance nodded. "Don't suppose you could supply us with some equipment to aid us in finishing this job?"

"That I can provide," said Zathrian. He turned and strode off to one of their great landships, where a man was busily working on some sort of weapon.

"This is Master Varathorn," said Zathrian. "He is our weaponsmith."

"_Andaran atish'an,_" said Varathorn. Zathrian said something to him in their strange language, though it sounded fairly close to gibberish to him. Varathorn nodded and smiled politely at the outsiders.

"I can provide some items," he said. And he turned and began to sort through a collection of armaments. He looked over his shoulder at the group, trying to judge what would be of the most use. He returned with a few weapons and items.

He handed to Lance a pair of curved knives.

"Dar'Misu," he said. Lance took them graciously and attached them to his belt.

To Leliana he handed a bow and specially made arrows. "Ironbark."

Wynne received a staff made from gnarled wood. "Sylvanwood."

A large curved saber for Alistair. "Dar'Misaan."

Zevran received a breastplate, made of the Dalish leather. Oghren was given a pair of axes called Dal'Thanu. Morrigan received a book of ancient Elven spells, something parted with dearly. Shale required nothing.

"This is quite hospitable, Zathrian," Lance said. The Keeper nodded.

"If you do not survive we will reclaim these items."

"Good to know."

Lance led the group away from the camp, facing down the heart of the forest. Werewolves, sprits, irritable Elves. What was the worst that could happen?

"Shall we?" he asked. Morrigan's sly grin set him anxious. He was definitely going to have a fun night with her later, and Shale could ask all the questions it wanted in the morning.

And so he stepped into the Brecilian Forest.


	53. Witherfang

So the Brecilian Forest had been quite an adventure thus far. Lance was only mutely aware of the nature of werewolves, knowing only that the first Teyrn Cousland had become such by organizing Banns against the werewolves during the Black Age. It was sort of a family legacy then.

The snarling, howling beasts that travelled alongside their four-legged cousins were quite gruesome. Though they died as easily as any other creature, fangs or not. Starfang had sliced through their flesh and fur with substantial ease, making Lance wonder exactly how the wolves had gotten their sinister reputation.

No, the giant, walking trees had been of more concern. Starfang was able to hack their bark-covered exterior but the trees were beyond pain. He had to rely on Morrigan and Wynne to burn them down, and for Oghren's axe to chop them to bits.

The Veil was thin here, and that let all manner of nasty creatures to escape from the Fade. This had been most pronounced when they stumbled across some sort of campsite.

A cozy fire and a small tent had been set up, though there was no sign of any sort of campers. It hadn't appeared to belong to the Dalish, and there was something too captivating about it to resist. They decided to take a quick nap.

Even now, stepping carefully through some ancient Elven ruin, Lance was embarrassed at how he'd sleepily clambered into the small tent after Morrigan. What he would have done had he got there, he still wasn't sure.

Regardless, their reverie was torn apart when it was revealed that the camp was just bait for some wraith, and that they lay amongst the bones of likeminded travelers.

After killing the demon, they'd found an old worn chest, with, amongst other things, a set of Dalish gloves that Zevran likened to the pair he'd owned as a boy. For some odd reason he thanked Lance repeatedly for them, as though he'd been the one to get them.

But that was hours ago, before they'd descended ancient, root gnarled, cracked stairs to the deep dark of some sort of ruin. Alistair had likened it to something that the Dwarves would have built; causing Oghren to quip that if Dwarves had built it there would not be a ruin in its place.

Lance still smarted from having been tackled by a very strange wolf, one that he figured had to be Witherfang. The werewolves had retreated to the ruin, and though Lance had yet to see them, he assumed they were nearby.

Getting lost in the ruin hadn't been the plan, nor had running into a fully grown dragon. Not a High Dragon, thankfully. Lance joked that had it been, Morrigan would have just been eaten.

They ended up having to swim through the ruin, something Lance found to be the most distasteful part of their journey. Stagnant ruin water was not exactly something one wanted to bathe in with any frequency. They'd reached the lair of the werewolves.

"Stop," one of the wolves cried. One of the other werewolves had attempted to converse with them earlier in the forest, though it was really interested in a fight. This one at least seemed fearful of the interlopers. Good thing, too. Lance didn't want to pull a muscle in his sword arm hacking these bastards to death.

"The Lady of the Forest wishes to parlay with you," said the wolf. Lance hesitated to accept. He had no idea who the Lady of the Forest was, nor did he know this would connect to Witherfang, the wolves, and all the other crap he'd had to wade through to get here. But he was willing to entertain the wolves, if only for the moment. At least if they tried to ambush them, they could all be gathered in one place.

"Okay," said Lance, glancing back at his fellows. "We'll parlay. First sign of betrayal, though, and you all die."

"Likewise," the wolf growled.

They had apparently gotten much closer to the heart of the forest than they'd thought. The wolves were all gathered about their Lady, and Lance could hardly blame them.

She turned to face them, and the male members of the party made varying noises of surprise. She was a beautiful woman, if not a bit strange. She was nude, except for a winding root that twisted up her body to conceal her anatomy, and the long black hair that draped over her shoulders to her breasts.

Lance stared, chewing on his lip in agitation. He felt a subtle tap on his shoulder and exerted a massive amount of will to face Morrigan, who glared at him.

"Sorry," he said, and tried his best to keep his eyes solidly on the Lady's.

"Hello," she said, her voice seeming to come from a dozen places at once. Werewolves crowded around her, including the one who had tried to stall Lance all the way through the forest.

"We have them, Lady," snarled the wolf. "We can kill them now!"

"No, Swiftrunner," she said. "All your actions have only served to cause that which we are trying to prevent."

He took a step back, still snarling. The Lady looked at Lance, seeming to be in a state of perpetual peace.

"I am sorry," she said. "Swiftrunner struggles with the beast within him."

"I'm sure."

"I am the Lady of the Forest," she said. Lance huffed, examined the surrounding chamber.

"You look more like the Lady of the Ruin."

Swiftrunner was suddenly in his face, rancid breath and all.

"You will speak to her with respect," he growled. Lance touched the hilt of his sword.

The Lady called Swiftrunner back, and he reluctantly complied.

"You were sent by Zathrian, were you not?" she asked. "He sent you to bring back the heart of Witherfang. You do not know the full story."

"Tell me something new," said Lance. "I suppose you're going to convince me that I shouldn't work for him, that I should kill him for you."

"No. I ask that you bring him before me."

"So you can kill him?"

"So that I may entice him to end the curse on these poor people."

Lance blinked. "So he's the cause of these werewolves?"

"Yes. He summoned Witherfang; he asked that Witherfang bring him vengeance on the ones that murdered his family. Those that survived were cursed. This was many centuries ago."

"I see. That changes things a bit," said Lance. "Is there any way to lift the curse?"

"Only Zathrian can do that now."

There was a loud clap from the other side of the room, and Lance looked to Zathrian entering through a door that had been sealed when the group had first entered the ruin. He was looking smug, and angry, a vast departure from the calm Keeper they'd met earlier.

"Congratulations," said Zathrian. "You've finally lead me to Witherfang."

"Zathrian," Lance said. "I would have liked to have known the whole tale."

"I would have liked for it to have an ending," said Zathrian. Lance crossed his arms.

"This is all a big game of revenge? With us as the henchmen caught in the middle?"

Zathrian snorted. "Stop being so melodramatic. This is about what those people did to me, to my family."

The Lady stepped forward, keeping her wolves at bay.

"Zathrian, is there no mercy left in you?"

"No! Not after what they," he pointed to the wolves. "did to my family."

"Please, show mercy."

Leliana stepped forward, spoke to Lance.

"Make this stop," she pleaded. "Make Zathrian end these poor wolves' torment. There is nothing worth this hatred!"

Lance sighed. He cleared his throat, thinking. And then he turned to speak to her.

"Isn't there? Isn't there no vengeance too severe when it comes to your family? Isn't there nothing you wouldn't do to get back at the people that murdered your entire family?"

Zathrian nodded to the Warden. "Listen to him. He knows. I cannot forgive. Not now, not ever."

"You are hurt," said the Lady to Lance. "I can feel it. You are not the same as Zathrian. You _can_ forgive."

Lance hesitated. He thought about his own dead family, about Oriana and Oren lying slain, about Fergus dead at Ostagar, about his father bleeding to death. About Marna. Wouldn't he have cursed Howe, wouldn't he have wished eternal torment on his entire family?

He wanted to draw his sword, to slice the Lady to pieces, to kill them all. What did she know about pain?

And then he looked at Morrigan, found himself hesitant to do any such thing. She looked back at him, brow furrowed.

"What?"

He swallowed. And he again thought about his dead family, his tortured past. And he thought about Morrigan, and a brighter future.

"I love you," he said. And he looked at the Lady, and at Zathrian, said, "End the curse, Zathrian. Let it go."

"I cannot!"

"The curse is cast with blood," said the Lady. "His blood. The curse can only end with his death."

"I see," said Lance. And he drew his sword. "Zathrian please."

"No!"

And Zathrian cast some spell, summoning the few trees that had grown in the ruin to life, to attack the wolves and the Lady. The Lady of the Forest transformed, appearing as the silver Witherfang. She snarled and growled and made ready to fight Zathrian.

Lance rushed him, colliding with the Keeper. He would have a hard time explaining this to the Dalish.

He sliced down, narrowly missing the Elf as he rolled aside. Magic knocked Lance off his feet. He was grabbed one of the mobile trees, and he slashed at its arm with Starfang.

A fiery bolt struck the tree, setting it ablaze and causing Lance to fall from its grasp. He grappled with Zathrian, hoping to make with ability what he lacked in magic.

Zathrian tried to cast a spell, but was silenced with a punch to the throat. Lance swept Zathrian's legs out, knocked him to the ground. He had his blade at the Elf's throat.

"End it," he ordered. Zathrian was snarling.

"No, I cannot. Do not ask me to."

"Damn you, Zathrian," said Lance. "I'm tired of this. I'm not in the mood to negotiate. I will kill you or you will end it! No revenge is worth the death you've caused already."

He hesitated, looked around at the people watching him, the people arrayed against him. And he must have realized then that he was wrong. That he was not the one in the right. And he nodded, somberly.

"Okay," he said. "I will do this. I will end the curse, if I must."

He stood, and Lance watched cautiously. Zathrian seemed sincere, and he smiled at the Lady, to set her at ease.

"I have been overcome by revenge," he said. "I am sorry. I was… wrong."

"Thank you, Zathrian," said the Lady.

"You will die, when the curse is lifted," said Zathrian. "You know this?"

"Zathrian, you created me. You are my maker. I have lived, and have experienced all the joys of life. But I wish most for an end. End me, maker."

Zathrian nodded, and he stood before her, back straight, staff beside him. Lance and the others watched on, unable to do anything but. And Zathrian tapped his staff on the ground, and he fell. Lance realized that he was dead.

The wolves gathered about the Lady, reached out to touch her one last time. And she smiled as light surrounded her, as death came for her. And she was dead.

Another flash, and then the surrounding werewolves were human once more. They examined their hands, hugged each other and cried for themselves. Swiftrunner approached, now a muscular blonde man.

"Hello," he said, he smiled wide, tears in his eyes. "Thank you so much, friend."

Lance nodded, feeling as though he hadn't actually done much of anything.

"You're welcome," he offered. And Swiftrunner gave a joyous shout, leading his companions to run out of the ruin into the sunlight.

Lance looked at Zathrian's body, wondered if they should carry him back. Leliana stepped forward.

"What will we tell the Dalish?"

Lance shrugged.

"That they're to assemble in Redcliffe?"


	54. Streets of Denerim

Lanaya had been saddened to hear of Zathrian's death, though was able to accept the role of Keeper. She promised Lance that the clan would provide all the hunters they could, and that they would seek out other clans and alert them to the Grey Wardens' need.

"We've got an army," said Alistair, laughing. "We've got an army! We can do this."

"Yes, Alistair," said Morrigan. "It is just too thrilling."

Lance was all smiles. He approached Morrigan, held her shoulders.

"Come on, Morrigan," he said. "It's a night for celebration. We're going to kick back this Blight."

He gestured for their tent, eager to get started on their celebrations. She didn't budge.

"No," she said. "'Tis not worthy of celebrating. Not until you are victorious."

"Call this the pregame, then," said Lance, and he stepped closer to her. She was hesitant to share any romance with him, and that made him nervous. "Is there something wrong?"

She gave him a shove. "Because there must be something wrong with me to refuse your advances?"

"Well, no. I just-"

"Stop it," she said, smiling suddenly. "'Tis not becoming."

And she let him kiss her; even put her arms around him.

"You had me worried," he said. She didn't look much better, though. "There _is_ something wrong, isn't there?"

"No, nothing wrong," she said. "I… 'tis nothing."

"It doesn't sound like nothing."

"I am merely distracted. Perhaps you could refocus my thoughts? Present to me something far more pleasurable?"

"If you would like."

"I would."

She smiled at him, casually flipping aside her robe to reveal more of her breast to him. He grinned, pulled off his breastplate, leaving it on the ground beside the fire. Shale approached, hoping to examine more of what it called "the human procedure". Lance held up a hand, telling the Golem to stand back.

"The swamp witch promised to provide me a demonstration," said Shale. Lance choked.

"I'm afraid that if that you are present, then _I_ won't be able to provide a demonstration."

"I do not understand."

"I didn't think you would. There's just a level of kink that I won't go to."

"I still do not understand."

"Listen in, if it pleases you," said Lance. And as he entered the tent, he muttered to himself, "Maker knows it won't please me."

Shale nodded to him, and watched as he entered the tent after Morrigan. And then Shale stepped closer, trying to imagine just how the actions described by the swamp witch could cause the noises emanating from the tent.

They proceeded on to Redcliffe castle, Lance barely able to contain the excitement growing within him. Morrigan was a little morose than she had been, though Lance just chalked it up to her fear of his death in the coming battle. He wasn't worried, though. Of course he would make it; he'd just spent the past few months charging through hell and back all over Ferelden. What was one more battle, even with an Archdemon?

No, he would kill the bastard, save the world. And with Flemeth gone, for now, he and Morrigan could leave. She would probably argue with him about it, but he knew. Wherever she went, he was bound to follow.

It was just how it had to be.

Arl Eamon was excited, though he kept his enthusiasm measured. With an army assembling at Redcliffe, with the nobles in opposition of Loghain gathering under a common banner, the Darkspawn rising in the south, it was all coming to its close. Lance breathed, nervous suddenly.

He and Eamon and a collection of servants and soldiers and Lance's companions had marched to Denerim, where they would begin preparations for the Landsmeet. They had a few days left before all the nobles were collected. They had to stack the deck in their favor, influence the opinions of the nobles in any way they could. It was skullduggery to be sure, but Lance was familiar with the nuances.

"West Hills, and the rest of the south, ought to be on our side," said Lance. "They've seen the Darkspawn threat firsthand and have seen Loghain do damn near nothing to stop it."

"Dragon's Peak was a firm supporter of Highever and Cailan," said Eamon. "Perhaps we could cement their support?"

"What about the others?"

"I don't think they will join us out of sentiment alone."

Lance nodded. "Grease the wheels?"

Alistair stepped towards them, hands raised to argue. "Wait a minute, are you talking about bribing?"

Lance nodded. "Yes, of course."

"Isn't that a little dishonest? Do we want to win this way? Wouldn't it be better to have the Bannorn with us and not working for us?"

"Politics, Alistair," said Lance. "You'll get the hang of it once you become king."

"Oh, not that nonsense again."

Lance smiled, laughing. The closer they came to the Landsmeet, the more nervous he got about being made king. Both Lance and Eamon seemed resolute in their support of his rule, no matter how much he protested.

But this all took a back seat to the matter at hand. Loghain was approaching, with his right hand woman Ser Cauthrien and his dog Rendon Howe. Seeing the three of them approach made Lance blood boil, and he reached for his sword, stopped only by Morrigan's warning hand on his.

"Do not be a fool," she whispered. "You would undo all of our work."

He nodded, though he couldn't help but feel his finger tighten around the hilt of his sword. He grit his teeth, and tried to stay at least a bit relaxed.

"Eamon," said Loghain, approaching with his arms crossed as though he were speaking to an errant child. "So good to see you. News from the west had been very dire concerning your estate."

"I am in good health, My Lord," said Eamon. "Though not for lack of trying."

Loghain's eyes flitted over Lance and his companions, narrowing on him and Alistair.

"These are the Grey Wardens that escaped Ostagar," said Loghain. "The rest of your Order died murdering out king."

Lance stepped forward then.

"You lie! I was there, I lit the beacon! You ordered the retreat when you were supposed to press the attack! This man is a traitor!"

Ser Cauthrien stepped forward.

"Watch your mouth, cur; this is our King you speak to. King Loghain was loyal to Cailan right up to his death. It was your Grey Wardens that killed him."

Lance snarled, unable to believe that even Cauthrien could be so blind. She was no better than an animal, desperate for approval, following her master's heels wherever he went.

So Lance gave her a solid shove.

She reached for her sword, though Howe was quick to put an end to any possible hostilities.

"Now, now," he said. "Let us not lose our sense of decorum."

"Sod you, Howe," said Lance. "You're a murderer."

Cauthrien reached out, jostled Lance, barely able to keep control while he insulted both Loghain and Howe.

"This is the Teyrn of Highever, Arl of Denerim, Arl of Amaranthine!"

"_I_ am the Teyrn of Highever," said Lance, defiant. "Howe is a usurper!"

"The Couslands are no more," said Loghain. "Traitors, not unlike your fellow Wardens."

"I am a hero," said Howe. "For killing traitors to Ferelden."

Lance lost it; he punched Howe in the face, knocking him back. He would have reached for his sword had not Loghain returned the punch.

Lance fell backwards, landed on his back. Cauthrien was over him, blade at his throat.

"Know your place, churl," she said. Lance grinned up at her.

"Perhaps you would like to teach me my place."

"Defiant to the end," said Loghain, gesturing for Cauthrien to step aside. Lance sat up, wiping a small line of blood from the corner of his mouth. "Come. Let us depart before this meeting degrades any further."

The three turned to leave, but Lance had to have the last word.

"You know how this ends, Howe? With my hands around your throat."

He snorted and looked back at Lance. But didn't speak, not after seeing the look in his eyes.

"That could have been handled more diplomatically," said Eamon, after the three had left. He helped Lance to stand.

"Sod 'em."

"Indeed."

"I need to be alone right now," said Lance. Eamon nodded, understanding.

"You have quarters prepared, just ask a servant to show you up to your room."

Lance nodded and left, cursing. Morrigan stood, watching after him for some time. Eamon didn't speak to her, looking a bit nervous. He instead went with Alistair to his office, where they could discuss matters pertaining to the coming Landsmeet.

A young Elf servant girl approached Morrigan, holding what appeared to be a pile of clothing.

"Would you like a change of clothes, My Lady?"


	55. Reprieve

"I don't want to talk about it," said Lance, pouring himself another few fingers of whatever alcohol the Arl had ordered delivered to their room. He downed it in a single gulp. Morrigan closed the door behind her, ignoring his mabari's whining to be let in.

She crossed the space between him in a few self-sure strides, putting one comforting hand on his shoulder even as he poured another glassful.

"Was that him? The man who killed your parents?"

"Yes," he said, and swallowed the rest of the drink. He reached into a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of wine, popping the cork and drinking straight from the bottle.

"He did not seem like very much," said Morrigan. Lance grunted in reply. She was rubbing his shoulder, being as comforting as she could, and that took a great deal of effort on her part.

"My mother once said that there was no fool like a drunken fool," she told him, and took the bottle away from him. He looked at her, forehead wrinkled in frustration. He tried to take the bottle back, but she refused him.

"Forgive me if I don't put much stock in your mother's wisdom," said Lance. She snorted and drank from the bottle, grimacing at the taste. She corked it, put it away.

"Perhaps your time would be better spent in preparing for a confrontation with the man?"

"Confrontation? You mean murder? That's how they'll spin it anyway. 'Arl Rendon Howe cut down before his prime by Grey Warden assassins'."

"'Twould be better than wallowing in your own self-pity."

"I like wallowing."

"Perhaps, then, you could wallow in something else?"

"Like what?"

Morrigan smirked. She glanced over at the plush bed prepared for them by the estate's servants, sauntered over to it. She felt the clean sheets, tested the bed's firmness. It was soft, quite unlike any bed she had ever slept in, being so used to the Wilds and whatever luxuries could be gleaned from them. She looked back at Lance, who was sitting on the large couch next to the fire. He leaned heavily on his knees, and his face told her that he was thinking about something that made him quite sad.

"Warden?"

He turned to watch her, though it did little to brighten his mood.

She sat at the foot of the bed, a wicked smile forming on her lips. She had a way with him, she knew, and supposed that it was a good sign if she could so affect his mood. He did perk up a little.

"Perhaps you would prefer to wallow in me?" she asked. He couldn't help but laugh.

"Is that supposed to be a proposition?"

"Yes."

"You really suck at it."

She reached behind her, untied her robe so that she could slip it over her shoulders and discard it on the floor. He watched her, in rapt attention. She was beautiful, and he was a weak man when it came to beautiful women. Especially when it came to her.

He loved her, he truly did. And he stood from the couch, smoothed the wrinkles on the front of his tunic. It was a nervous gesture; the tunic would be on the floor in another minute.

Morrigan patted down a spot for him to sit on the bed, right next to her. She reached up, pulled her hair free from the bun she wore always. He gave her a sad smile, still unable to shake the thoughts of his parents. Seeing Howe again, the smug bastard that he was, it just set him on fire. Sometimes he didn't know if he could keep himself from doing something really stupid, like picking a fight with the man in the middle of the street.

Morrigan understood, though, or she at least pretended to. She knew a bit about the hurt he carried, about how being with her made it a little better. About how he could forget his torment when he was with her.

He whispered things to her, while they spent those moments of passion together, things that were too hard to say at any other time. He described the depth of his love for her, the lengths he would go to for her. He apologized for his inadequacies as a person and asked for her understanding. She gave it, unconditionally, and assured him that he had no shortcomings in her eyes.

Those were things equally hard for her to tell him, except for when they were alone together. And she felt severe, sharp pangs of regret every time, sometimes driving her to quiet desperation. She begged herself not to feel it, to forget him. Or she begged herself not to do what she knew she must. But there was no choice in the matter. She had already decided.

And when he kissed her, reached behind her to find a spot to place his hand, gently urged her to lie back on the bed, she again wished that her mother hadn't sent her along with these people. She wished never to have met Lance. And all at once she changed her mind and instead thanked her mother, thanked every god she had thus far mocked.

She was undeserving of him, his love, the affection he poured on her, the dedication he gave freely. She didn't deserve it. And he didn't deserve the heartbreak and the regret and the sorrow that she would bring him. He deserved far more than that.

But here they were once again. The clap of his boots falling to the floor made her forget the dark thoughts that crept into the far corners of her mind. She instead concentrated on the here, the now. She forgot her remorse, her own sorrow.

"Are you okay?" he asked, breaking their kiss to look her in the eye. He did that often; spoke to her straight-on. It was one of those qualities she had great respect for. He was an equal to her, something hard for her to admit. He was more than that.

"Why do you ask, Warden?"

"You just feel… sad," said Lance. And she looked down at the ring on his finger, how he thumbed it absently. She gave him a small smile, and assured him that she was just fine.

"I am okay," she said. "Really."

And he kissed her again, and she tugged at his tunic, pulling it from his shoulders. She reached behind her, grabbed the edge of the blanket, and pulled it open to allow them access, even as he relieved her of her shoes.

They were together for now, and to Morrigan that meant everything. She tried so hard to live her life in the now, the present, to never have hope for the future for fear that it would kill her. But she couldn't think that way, not now. Not while she was making love to a man that thought always of the future, that carried with him such great hope. She buried her face in his shoulder, as if that would give her more time, more of him.

And she cried out with all her sorrow.

Nearly an hour later they were up again, getting ready to go about the business of preparing for the Landsmeet. Lance was pale and shaky and he looked ill, a residual effect from Morrigan's emotions through her ring. She was embarrassed.

"There won't be much for you to do," said Lance. "Just boring political stuff."

"I was quite under the impression you hated politics."

"I do. With a passion."

"The same passion reserved for me?"

"Maybe that's a bad way to describe it," said Lance, and he smiled a bit. He leaned closer to her, kissed her again. He took a moment to lean back and regard her with a big grin. She was naked still, covering herself with only a sheet, and even then only at the Warden's insistence. She was from the Wilds, where modesty had little meaning. He told her that it made seeing her full form all the more special for him.

And besides that, it was bad enough that some servant had to wash these sheets; they didn't need to throw it in their faces.

"Are you hungry?" Lance asked. "I could have us sent up a platter."

"I might be inclined to eat," said Morrigan, yawning. She was tired. Lance reached over, pulled the blanket over her.

"Go to sleep," he said. "I'll come check on you in a few hours."

She nodded, sleepy. She let her eyes close and her body relax.

Lance stayed for a few minutes, watching her sleep. She was so… cute. He knew she would take umbrage to that, that she would threaten him with grievous bodily harm. But he just loved her too much to deny himself the little pleasures. Watching her sleep was one of those tiny, intimate moments he thrived on.

He only wished that he could stay here with her forever. He sighed, and stood up, stretching his back. He was tired, too. Morrigan had that way about her. But for once he didn't have the luxury of sleeping, nor did he want to open the door to find Alistair ready to hack him to pieces.

So he left – making sure to peer through the door crack to be sure Alistair was not there – and made for Arl Eamon's office, where he would be strategizing for the Landsmeet. As much as he hated politics in all their forms, this felt a little closer like home. And if he could just get a few minutes alone with Howe…

Of course, as luck would have it, there was no rest for the wicked. And he was sure that he and Morrigan were very wicked.

A young, pretty Elf girl stood next to the Arl. They both looked serious and even Alistair was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. The Arl regarded Lance with a serious scowl, rubbing his white beard in agitation.

"Ah, Warden," he said. "Come, we have important news."

The Elf nodded, and looked at him with desperate eyes. He didn't want to listen, knowing that they would inevitably depend on him for some mission or quest. He was tired of being the go-to guy. And besides, he was feeling quite drained thanks to his romp with Morrigan.

"This is Erlina," said the Arl. "She is Queen Anora's handmaiden."

"And she's standing right here?" Lance asked, half-joking. "She could be a spy for Loghain. Lock her up."

"No, you do not understand," said Erlina, with a thick Orlesian accent. "My Lady is in trouble. You must come to her aid."

"How did I know this was coming?"

The Arl spoke up. "It seems Loghain cannot trust even his own daughter. He has her locked up in the Arl of Denerim's estate."

"Howe's estate?" asked Lance, getting his second wind. If Howe was involved, if this would give him an opening to take the bastard out, then he was all for it.

"Yes. It seems that he has Anora locked away, to keep her from harming his chances in the Landsmeet."

"My Lady can no longer trust her father," said Erlina. "She begs me to come request aid from the Wardens."

"What does she need done?" asked Lance. Erlina smiled, glad that she was able to find some help. Lance was willing to go wherever he needed to if it meant killing Howe. Because that was what he was going to do.

And damn whoever got in his way.


	56. Rescue the Queen

He adjusted the helm he wore, trying to get the best view possible. He hated helmets. He preferred to operate without one. However he wasn't about to risk being recognized as the persistent Grey Warden no matter how many mercenaries he could blend in with.

Zevran trotted noisily behind him, unable to fill out the armor with his diminutive Elf build. Leliana was in much the same trouble, as was Wynne. Alistair would have been more convincing, but there was no way he was going to take the only other Grey Warden into Howe's estate especially if this turned out to be a trap.

Morrigan was still sleeping soundly in their bed, or at least had been when he last checked on her. She might very well be awake right now, burning down the estate in rage.

Erlina casually led them, trying to appear as much like any other servant Elf as she could. There were plenty of those in the estate, along with the mercenaries. Howe was a bit of a loon by Lance's conservative estimation. She'd snagged a few uniforms for them to wear, and they were instantly indistinguishable from the rest of the estate's guards.

"My Lady is locked in the guest bedroom," said Erlina. "There was a guard posted when I left, but he is not there."

They turned the corner to a short hallway leading to the bedroom. Lance was a little wary of the lack of attention they'd received. It stood to reason that they would have sounded every bell in the place by now.

"Oh, damn," Lance muttered, seeing that the door shimmered with a magical barrier. Of course there was no guard; they had mages.

"My Lady? Your Majesty?" Erlina whispered through the door. There was a muffled reply, something along the lines of "right here".

"Hello?" she half-shouted from the other side. The door was thick, or the magic was sound dampening. Either way, they were in a spot of trouble.

"Your Majesty," Lance said through the door, keeping his voice low enough that it couldn't be heard from across the estate. "It's Lance Cousland; Eleanor's son."

His mother and the Queen had been close confidants. Lance had never had a real chance to meet the Queen, nothing more than a "hello, Your Highness". She had seemed nice then, was real pretty, but he knew all too well that it was just politics. Chances were she was a pampered raving bitch like the rest of them.

Oh, that wasn't fair to her. He didn't even know her.

"Ah! Then it is true," she said from the other side of the door. "You are the Grey Warden? Please, help me out of here."

"It is sealed with magic," said Wynne. "Not like any barrier I am familiar with. Howe has probably hired illegal mages to perform the rite."

"Great," said Lance.

"Howe is in the basement," said Anora. "He will be with his mages."

"That's excellent," said Lance. "I've unfinished business with Howe."

"Warden! Try not to do anything too stupid!"

"Come on, Your Highness," said Lance. "When have I ever done anything stupid?"

He didn't wait for a reply. Chances were she'd heard of any number of things he may or may not have done. He wasn't in the mood to shoot down idle gossip. Not while Howe was lying in wait.

He fingered the broadsword sheathed at his side, grit his teeth. Howe was waiting. Erlina pointed him down the hallway, last door on the left. Lance nodded to her and told her to keep out of sight. And no matter what you hear, don't worry.

The others trotted uneasily behind him, seemingly able to taste his anticipation. He was imagining the smug look on Howe's face, how it would feel to peel his skin from his bones. He was going to make the bastard suffer, every minute, every second. He would make it last days, impart every ounce of agony he'd ever felt on the man.

The streets would be stained red forever.

Howe wasn't in his office, unfortunately. Lance poked through Howe's possessions, half hoping to find something embarrassing he could hand off to someone. But alas, Howe was meticulous when it came to his embarrassing personal documents. So Lance ran his sword along the mattress, causing all manner of feathers to jet forth into the room.

"Oops."

There was a chest next to the basement door, old and worn. It hadn't shut properly, due to rusted latches and swollen wood. Lance opened it, eyed the piles of documents there. And he saw something he recognized.

Grey Warden Seals. The shining stylized Griffon.

He reached in, found a number of papers apparently having to do with Grey Warden business. How did he get his hands on these? The bastard didn't deserve to get his treacherous paws on them! Lance pocketed them. He'd figure out what they were for later.

He tested the door cautiously, making sure that it wasn't squeaky or trapped or some other inconvenience. The stench of filth and vomit wafted up from below. Lance made a face and looked at his comrades.

"Dungeon," he whispered. And he unsheathed his sword. Whatever happened down here, it would be just so many more dead bodies.

There was only one guard in the dungeon, and he was flabbergasted to see another person down there.

"Who are you? What are you doing?" he asked. But before he could get an answer, a bare muscular arm wrapped about his throat, pulling him against the cage and breaking his neck in one fluid motion. Lance didn't quite know how to respond. Any prisoner of Howe's was a friend of his, but who exactly was this quick-thinking, neck-breaking prisoner?

The body of the guard was dragged into the cage, the sound of buckles being made loose and metal rattling filled the still air until the prisoner emerged, with a slight grin.

Lance stared at him. "How you doing?"

He was an older man, wrinkles and complexion telling Lance that he was past his middle years, if only by a little. He had grown a short, unkempt beard in his time in the dungeon, and his hair was clinging to his neck in matted, sweaty strands.

He might have been a mercenary or a freelance adventurer. Or worse; Orlesian.

"Hello," he said, trying to appear pleasant despite the obvious pain rolling off of him. Lance wondered what tortures he'd been subjected to. He was, of course, Orlesian. Though he wasn't overly disturbed by the fact, Lance was curious as to who this man was.

"I am Lance, Grey Warden of Ferelden," he said. The man's eyes widened, and a big ironic grin spread across his face.

"Well, what are the chances of that, I wonder? My name is Riordan, Grey Warden of Orlais."

Lance extended his hand, and the man shook it, despite his obvious ill condition. Lance wasn't exactly sure how to reply to this man. Was there some secret Warden code he'd yet to be filled in on? Was there a hidden handshake ritual?

"What are you doing here?" Lance asked. Riordan shrugged.

"I was trying to ascertain the condition of the Order here in Ferelden. Duncan sent out a call for aid, and I and a hundred of my fellows arrived with twelve divisions of cavalry to aid the forces at Ostagar. We were turned away at the border. So I snuck across to find out why."

"Great. So Loghain really did sabotage our victory," Lance muttered. Riordan nodded.

"Indeed he did. The Empress has taken this slight rather personally. I'm afraid the rest of the world has given up on Ferelden."

"That's just fantastic," said Lance. Riordan sighed and nodded.

"What are you doing here, Warden?" he asked finally.

"Short story? Stacking the deck in our favor when it comes to dealing with Loghain."

"I see. You still have hope. Charming."

"Can you help us?"

"Not in my current condition, no," said Riordan. "I've been Howe's… 'guest' for some time. After I seek out a good physician, I will aid you in any way I can."

"Sounds good," said Lance. "Can you find your way out?"

"Isn't that what I'm doing?" Riordan asked, giving a smirk as he headed up out of the dungeon. Lance watched the man leave, curious how he could be so jovial after having killed a man to exit a cell. It didn't make too much sense, but then Lance was discovering that little did these days.

So he girded his loins and made for the lower dungeon, where the real fun would begin.

There was a clutch of guards at the bottom of the stairs, all joking and prodding each other. Gallows humor at its finest.

"Who're you?" asked one guard when he noticed the newcomers. Lance smiled pleasantly.

And he put his sword through the man's chest, shearing right through his leather armor. The other guards reacted, all a bit too slow. Zevran had his knives whipping left and right, cutting down his opponents while Lance took the gruffer approach and smashed heads with the pommel of his weapon.

In short order they'd cut right through the obstacle of guards and were ready to move into the dungeon proper.

Cries echoed here, and Lance wondered if Howe was in the middle of torturing someone even as they crept through the cold stone hallways. The bastard was probably getting off to it.

Lance held the sword tighter, running his tongue across his teeth to keep from shouting in fury. He was so going to enjoy this.

He could hear Howe's voice, even now. He looked back at his friends, seeing that they were regarding him with nervous looks. Well, not Zevran, who seemed to be elsewhere entirely. Perhaps the sound of torture took him back to his childhood.

"And is our little guest safely out of the way?" asked Howe. There was a noise that was probably from the mage keeping the spell intact. Lance gripped his sword with white knuckles. "Good."

He approached the door Howe was behind, putting his hand on the latch slowly, deliberately. He wouldn't alert the bastard just yet. He would savor this, get the taste of blood in his mouth.

_You're gonna die, you smug bastard, you prick, you son of a bitch._

And someone was opening the door from the other side.

Lance reacted as quick and smart as he could. He kicked the door, smashing it right into whatever fool had been trying to leave, hoping it was Howe himself. It wasn't, of course, but breaking a guard's nose was almost as satisfying.

Howe spun about, looking startled. His men fanned out to either side, eager to protect their lord and earn their pay.

There was a flash of movement, and Lance realized much later that it was Zevran's knives, and Howe's men flopped dead. The mage tried to react, but was downed with magical fire before he could cast a spell.

Howe reached for an axe slung over his shoulder.

But Lance didn't give him the chance.

Without thinking, his forehead rocked into Howe's nose, connecting with crunch of shattered cartilage. Howe shouted in pain, dropped his axe as he reached for his nose. Lance followed up with a gut punch, and Howe buckled over, leaving himself open for a knee to his busted nose.

He was on the ground, face covered in blood that oozed from his nostrils and he was groaning in pain.

"Hey, Howe," said Lance, kneeling over the wounded man. He casually grabbed Howe's axe off the ground and tossed it aside, well out of reach. "You don't look so good."

He tried to speak, but his words were a gargled mess. Between the blood and pain, Howe was long past anything coherent. Lance looked over at his companions, at Wynne's disapproving glare and Leliana's worried gaze.

Zevran looked okay, though.

"You guys might want to go back to Anora," said Lance. "I think I need a couple minutes to myself."

Leliana opened her mouth to speak, only to find Zevran shushing her. He looked over at Lance, nodded to him. An understanding passed between them then.

"Thanks, Zev," Lance said as the Elf ushered the others away, shutting the door as they went.

Lance stood, gave Howe a sharp kick in the ribs. He probably bruised a few. It was a shame; Howe wouldn't feel them for days, and Lance had no intention of letting him stick around that long.

"Say, Arl Howe," Lance said, pacing around his former vassal. "Is your daughter really interested in me? I always thought she didn't like me."

He mumbled something incoherent.

"Sure. You know why she didn't like me? It's a funny story. It must have been – oh – five years ago? We were still teenagers. Anyway, she came onto me at one of my mother's insufferable socials."

He muttered again, head rolling, trying to clear his thoughts.

"So, Delilah's laying it on thick, right? She's touching my shoulder and rubbing her leg up against mine. She's acting like a… like an Antivan whore, eh?"

Howe tried to lift himself up onto his elbows, to get his bearings. Lance causally put a foot on his chest, shoving him down onto the ground. He dug his heel in, watching the contortions of pain on his face.

"I guess she figures 'if he hasn't gotten it by now…' Well, she tries to get me to give her the grand tour of the place, y'know? She's asking if my chambers are near the Teyrn's, if there's any place quiet we can go. So, eventually, I just decide 'what the hell', right? And I take her to the courtyard, everyone else is busy in the dining hall, and she's all over me like a bitch in heat."

He stepped on Howe, keeping his nonchalance about him, paying special attention to his bruised ribs. He gave another kick with his heel, and then sent the toe of his boot across Howe's jaw.

"I give her a tussle, y'know. She's telling me all these twisted things, how she likes it, what she wants me to do. Sick stuff, too. 'Pull my hair! Spit in my face!'"

He squatted down next to him, rapping his knuckles against the cold stone floor of Howe's dungeon. It was a bit of irony, delicious irony. He looked Howe in the eye.

"Aw, don't go all woozy now. I want you to pay attention. So, anyways, she's really into it, and I go along with it for a bit, and then I just get up and leave. She's yelling at me, trying to keep her voice down so no one hears. She didn't really take to me after that. Guess you thought otherwise?"

Howe mumbled again, and Lance put a hand on his chest, leaning heavily so to keep him down. He frowned at Howe, a little disappointed that the old man couldn't keep up. He was hoping this would be a little more satisfying. Oh, well. One had to make do with what one was given.

"Actually, I made all that up," said Lance, giving him a sharp grin. "I've never touched her. I've got no idea why she doesn't like me. I think it's because I called Saorla Alfstanna pretty in front of her. She never liked her, you know. Women, right?"

"There it is," Howe finally managed, gurgling a bit on his own blood. "That same look in the eye that marked every Cousland success that held me back."

"Yes. Family trait."

"Still trying fit into daddy's armor then?"

"Hm. I think I made you a promise, Howe," said Lance, putting his hands around Howe's throat. "I keep my promises."

"Sod you."

"Maybe I'll look Delilah up after this. Think she'd give me a roll?"

"Maker spit on you. I deserved more."

Lance squeezed, harder and harder. Howe spat and groaned and choked, hands frailly trying to pull his away. No avail. His eyes bulged, and Lance imagined his windpipe closing, veins bursting. He gave a twist, and there was a subtle crack.

"Too bad," said Lance. "I wouldn't have minded having you lick my boots."

And he wiped his hands off on his tunic, and he turned and left. The others were waiting alongside Queen Anora, who was dressed as a simple guard. Lance snorted as he approached.

"Aren't you a little short for a guard?" he asked. She gave him a sardonic smile.

"Very funny. I see you have the same wit I recall from our meeting so many years ago," said Anora. She was still pretty, even wearing dingy armor. Her blonde hair refused to stay in her helmet, and a few strands hung limply against her breastplate.

"You remember me? Didn't realize I left such an impression," said Lance, and he crossed his arms, smiling still. She couldn't help but return it, seeing in him that same Cousland charm that had her so enamored with his parents.

"Let us depart before my father finds us," she said, and Lance gave a polite bow for her to go on ahead.

Leliana was of course rolling her eyes. It was just like Lance to only now become some sort of lady's man. He was grinning stupidly, and the cold realization that he might be smiling about something other than his flirtation with the Queen dawned on her. And she wondered if he was as noble and heroic as she'd come to believe.

And then his smile dropped, became a terse frown.

"Oh, shit."

Ser Cauthrien stood there, with a collection of the estate's guards. She didn't look happy to see them.

"How you doin'?" Lance asked, not sure if fighting would be worth the trouble. Cauthrien gestured to her men.

"Just the Warden. The King doesn't care about the others."


	57. Fort Drakon

"Love what you've done with the place," said Lance to the gruff man escorting him to his cell in Denerim's extravagant Fort Drakon. "No, really. Torture chic really suits the place."

"Don't you ever shut up?" he asked. Lance snorted.

"Hey if I've gotta suffer through this why should you catch a break?"

Lance was left in his small clothes, of course. His gear had been appropriated by one of the soldiers, and he was feeling rather naked. Well, so long as a pretty girl didn't walk by he would be okay, he reasoned. Though the place was hotter than Orzammar, as though they liked keeping things as uncomfortable as possible.

Whatever.

The cage door clanged shut behind him, and Lance rubbed at his wrists where the manacles had clung to him tightly. He smiled pleasantly.

Of course, that meant his ring was missing, and he found that he was quite irked by that.

"Say, buddy," said Lance, grinning at the man. The guard dared to come closer, frowning. He didn't particularly care for this prisoner.

"What do you want now?" the guard asked, looking quite annoyed.

"I was wondering if you could do me a favor," said Lance extending his hand from between the bars of his cell. "I seem to be missing my ring. If you could return it to me…"

"What the hell makes you think I would give you back your ring, you worthless piece of-"

"Look. It has great sentimental value," said Lance, frowning now. He was looking quite serious. "I want it back. Just return it to me, and we won't have any issues."

The guard reached to slap his hand away. "Shut up, you-"

Lance grabbed his wrist in a flash, pulled, yanking the guard's arm through the bars. He gave a twist and a shove, bending the man's elbow the wrong way. It snapped, and he cried out in pain.

"I want my ring," said Lance, and twisted again. "I want my ring."

A few of the guard's fellows came in, seeing their buddy being tortured by a naked prisoner. It would be a funny story, no doubt.

"I just want my ring," said Lance. The four of them glanced at each other, drew their clubs. And they approached the cage. They didn't bother asking him to let their friend go. There was no point. Lance backed into the cage, as far as he could go and still tug on the guard's arm. His cries were unsettling.

They opened the door, and two of them entered, the other two remaining at the door, in case he would try to escape.

"I want my ring," said Lance. And the first of the guards came in. He tried to bring his club down, to smash his head. It was a classic guard move, knock out the prisoner. Lance went low, reached up, grasped his wrist to pin his club hand and kneed him in the groin. He went to his knees.

Lance wrestled the club out of his hand, smashed his head, dropped to his knee and hit the next guard on his stomach. A quick snap up, and the man was biting of his own tongue, crying out as blood dripped down his chin.

He stumbled back, and the other two guards looked at each other cautiously.

Three guards, downed horribly by one prisoner.

"I'd like to have my ring back," said Lance. They nodded, and one rushed off to get it, while the other tried not to piss himself.

In a few more minutes the small ring of rosewood clattered to his foot. He picked it up, slipped it on over his finger.

"Thank you."

He dropped the club on the incapacitated guard at his feet, and stepped back so they could claim him. They weren't wounded permanently, not yet.

The door clanged shut, and they were all backing away.

Lance sighed, sat down, and thumbed the ring on his finger. He thought about Morrigan, wondered if she was already on her way. Knowing her, the entire fort would be burning.

And of course, on cue, the door to the prison section of the fort burst open, and in charged Morrigan and Oghren. Magic sparked about her and she was at his cage in a few solid steps.

"What took you?" Lance asked. She frowned at him, and gestured for Oghren to pry the cage open with is axe. He did so, and Lance stepped out gingerly.

He smiled at Morrigan, aware of his bare chest and the sheen of sweat. He thought about her fondly, wanted to touch her.

And she slapped him, the noise echoing loudly through the fort.

He felt for his red cheek, a tear appearing in his eye.

"What?" he demanded. "What?"

"You selfish bastard," she stabbed at him. "You made a _promise_."

"I'm sorry," said Lance. "What do you-"

"'Sorry'? '_Sorry_'? What am I expected to do with 'sorry'?"

"You were asleep! It was supposed to be a quick job! How was I supposed to know Cauthrien would show up with a platoon at her back?"

"That was why you made the promise! That was why we…" she sighed, rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Fine. 'Tis no matter. Let us depart from here."

Oghren approached, carrying the Warden's gear from his pack. He groaned when Lance turned to face him, unable to keep his gaze from staring at his "man-ness" straight-on. Lance dressed quickly, pulled on trousers and a tunic and his armor over it.

Morrigan presented to him his sword, Starfang. She'd carried it in, having woken to find that it was left in their room. She'd spent a good hour in bed, relaxing, assuming that he would be back in shortly. And then she was suddenly aware of his predicament, and the ring told her that he was in the fort. She was still angry.

He would just have to make it up to her later, in some manner that they would both enjoy.

"What say we get out of her before the whole fort comes crashing down?" asked Oghren, annoyed at the longing looks being exchanged before him. Morrigan regarded him with antipathy. She hesitated a second, longer than perhaps was necessary. And she kissed the Warden on his cheek.

He could feel her fear, her trepidation. She had worried about him, and she was glad to have saved him before the more unsavory parts of his prison stay had commenced.

The two of them had left much rampant death and destruction in their wake, and a number of soldiers, battered and beaten, lay moaning in pain. Lance regretted that they'd had to kill Fereldan soldiers, but it was a painful necessity. A few soldiers now were nothing compared to the destruction the Blight could wreak without Grey Wardens standing before it.

They disappeared into the bustling crowds of citizens throughout Denerim, and by the time someone had realized that there was an actual escape from Fort Drakon and that it had been none other than the Grey Warden who had hampered Loghain at every turn, they were long gone. And of course, the captain of the Fort decided that it would be best not to alert too many people to his monumental screw up.

Arl Eamon was concerned but kept himself in a measured calm. He saw that Lance was in reasonably good condition, and was satisfied that Anora was safe and sound behind him. She smiled pleasantly at him, and Lance returned it, much to a jealous Morrigan's chagrin. She elbowed him lightly, and his smile became an exaggerated frown.

"It is good to see you again, Warden," said Anora. "But I'm afraid that there isn't much time for pleasantries."

"Anora has informed us of some rather… troubling information," said Eamon. "It appears that Loghain is involved in some sort of unrest in the Alienage."

"Elves?" Lance asked. "What he could possibly be doing with Elves?"

"I do not know," said Anora. "I only know there I something unsavory currently happening there. I can't give you any details, but after Howe's men put their boots to the Elves there, the general unrest has abated little."

"I see," said Lance. He tapped his chin in thought. "You suppose that there some… secret operation there? One that relates to the Teyrn's schemes overall?"

"Absolutely."

Anora looked stern, determined. She was a lot like her father, but in a good way. Lance liked her. She regarded Alistair with an ambivalent nod, one that he returned. He wasn't too sure how to act, seeing as he was supposed to be kicking her off the throne in short order.

"So we'll get into the Alienage somehow," said Lance. "And we'll shut him down."

Anora nodded, her demeanor relaxing some. She seemed to be miles away, thinking about something else entirely.

"Warden, if I could speak to you in private?" she asked, and strode out of the room in the direction of her chambers. Lance cleared his throat, glancing nervously at Morrigan.

"I got a date with the Queen," he said. She scowled at him, and then her features softened, became a smile that echoed his good humor. She departed for their room, watching him turn to the Queen's chambers. He glanced over his shoulder as he did, caught her gaze before heading in.

"Your Majesty?" Lance asked, imagining her waiting pleasantly in her bed – with a proper amount of guilt, of course. She was standing next to the fireplace, looking quite concerned about something.

"Warden, please, there is no need," she said. "We need not stand on formality, not here. Lance."

He bristled at her casual use of his name. Every muscle screamed that it was improper, that he should straighten his back, politely avert his eyes. He should clear his throat and excuse his flippancy. Instead, he did as he was told.

"Yes, My- ah, Anora."

She gave him a bemused smirk, and she sat down on a plush couch, gesturing for him to sit across from her.

Lance did so, folding his hands on his legs nervously. She looked him right in the eye and he felt his breath catch in his throat. He didn't know what this conversation would entail, or what she expected from it. She was a Queen, and could expect whatever she wanted from him. Though as a Grey Warden he could make a case for refusal, political neutrality and such.

She was blunt, direct.

"I do not want Alistair on the throne," she said. Lance felt a rise of defensive anger.

"Hey, now, who-"

She held up a hand, ordering him silent. She seemed to recognize that this contradicted her earlier request for open dialogue, and blushed.

"I mean to say," she began slowly. "That Alistair is simply unsuited for the throne. Not while I still command it. It is no great secret that for as long as Cailan was King, I was the true power behind him."

"Sure," said Lance, remembering how big of a doofus the King had been. It stood to reason. But what did she know of Alistair? How did she know he couldn't be a good King?

"Alistair is a bastard," she said. "He has no knowledge of running a country, of how to keep things from falling apart. I do. I am what Ferelden needs, and I will not give up my rule so long as I can carry this country forward."

"Granted," said Lance. "But Alistair's claim is by blood. Yours is not."

"I know," she said. "And that is why I want you to support my bid in the Landsmeet. And in turn I will support you."

"I see. And what of Alistair?" he asked. She shrugged.

"What of him? He doesn't even want the throne," she said. "Is it not better this way?"

He cleared his throat, looked around for something to drink. He didn't quite like the direction of this conversation. Sure Alistair had his faults. He was thin-willed, whiny and scratched himself when he thought no one was looking. But he was kind-hearted, devoted, and he deserved something. Besides that, he had a _real _claim to the Ferelden throne. Sure Anora was a smart, capable woman, but Alistair was a king.

Was this supposed to be how the rule of Calenhad and his descendents ended? With the whimper of a back room deal?

"Perhaps I have a condition," said Lance. Anora regarded him seriously, tried to figure out what he might be thinking, what he might want.

"If it is in my power to grant it," she said. "Then you may have it. Once I am made Queen, of course."

Lance nodded, put a thumb to his chin thoughtfully.

"If I were to do this, to support your throne, and if I were to end the Blight… I see no reason why I should go without reward…"

She looked him over, tried to gauge what he wanted. And she followed his gaze to her stomach, and she caught on.

"Ah," she said. And quietly she stood, extended her hand to him and nodded towards the bed. He smiled.

And then he began to laugh.

"No, I'm kidding," he said. And she scowled, reaching to find something to hit him with. "That's the ol' Cousland wit at its finest, eh?"

"I see now why we only met the once," she said. Lance held his heart, pretended to be injured.

"Ouch. You've hurt me. You can't blame a guy for thinking."

She relaxed and sat back down. "What then, Lance, could you want?"

"Marry Alistair," said Lance. She cocked her head.

"What?"

"Marry him. It's the best of both worlds. You get to rule over Ferelden, the King gets to be a Theirin. These types of political marriages aren't uncommon."

"I suppose not…"

"Besides, the Landsmeet will support it almost unanimously. Eamon will support."

"This is the only way you'll stand beside me?"

"Well, not the only way, but…"

"I understand," she sighed, and looked at the fire for another moment before nodding. "Okay. Inform Alistair, make sure the arrangement is to his liking."

Lance stood to leave, but Anora raised her hand, gesturing for him to stay. Lance did, wondering what else Anora could possibly want to discuss.

"And of my father?" she asked. "I know his actions do not paint him in a flattering light, but he is doing what he thinks is best, as flawed as it may be."

Lance wrinkled his forehead, not sure what she was asking. And then she laid it out bare.

"Will you spare him, if given the chance?"

Lance shook his head. "No."

She grit her teeth, tensed her jaw.

"Please, Warden. He is my father and I do not wish harm on him."

"I'm sorry, but he's betrayed me, my Order. He's betrayed Ferelden; he's done more damage to our cause than the Darkspawn!"

"He is my father!"

Lance tried to keep control. He could not argue this. He could not. If Loghain was bared before him, than he would die, hero or no, father or no. Lance had slain Howe, would slay Loghain. It was how it had to be.

"I… understand," said Anora, and she looked away shyly. Lance tried to still himself, to keep his voice calm, calculated.

"Your Majesty," he said. "He killed Cailan. He blamed _me_ for it. I've been a pariah in Ferelden thanks to him. I'm sorry, but his crimes are too severe to allow him to live."

Anora sighed. And she looked at him, her gaze strong once more. She looked him over, making it plainly obvious that she was checking him out.

"I would have slept with you, you know," she said. And with a sly smile she added, "And not just for the throne."

"You are a terrible woman," said Lance, blushing. "It's flattering. But I'm taken."

"I know."


	58. Gnawed Nobles

They stepped into the tavern lightly, as though their very presence might crack the place in half. Of course, seeing as Morrigan was an apostate, that just might happen.

The tavern was filled with the stench of pipe smoke, ale, and probably vomit. It was supposed to be an upscale tavern for the nobles of Ferelden, but in all honesty it was just the cleanest tavern in the city. And not by much.

They had just returned from the Alienage, and Lance was taking care not to track in mud. The Alienage lacked the cobbled streets of Denerim proper, and was an endless source of thick mud.

Loghain had been allowing Tivinter slavers to export Elves in exchange for money to support his Civil War. The rat bastard.

He'd sent the others on ahead to tell Eamon of their findings. He had yet to speak to Alistair about marrying Anora.

Instead, Lance had decided to pay a visit to the tavern and any nobles that might be meeting there currently. And he was given a tinge of excitement when he saw Bann Saorla Alfstanna sitting across from Arl Bryland. The two hadn't noticed him, so Lance leisurely walked up to their booth and sat down.

"Hey, how you doin'?" Lance asked, smiling pleasantly at Alfstanna. Her mouth dropped open, seemingly in shock.

"Lance Cousland! It's true! You are alive. When I heard about-" she cut herself off, realizing what she was about to say. "I'm so sorry."

Lance held up a hand.

"I'm alright. I got to give Howe a little taste of his medicine," said Lance, winking. Saorla gave him an apologetic smile nonetheless. He reached over, put his hand over hers in a friendly gesture.

Morrigan was standing still, arms crossed in quiet agitation. Lance cleared his throat and gestured for her to take a seat next to the Bann. She did so, albeit with reservation.

Lance struggled to introduce her to the two nobles. How did one introduce an apostate in a flattering manner to a pair of nobles anyway?

"This is Morrigan," said Lance. "She's my… Uh, we… She's…"

"His lover," Morrigan finished for him, looking deadly serious. Lance frowned. That wasn't exactly how one did it, but why not?

"I see," said Alfstanna, looking Morrigan up and down. She and Lance had always been friends, for as long as he could remember having known her, and it was now painfully obvious why they'd only ever been friends. "You still have the same fine tastes."

Morrigan frowned at the woman, crossed her arms defensively.

A waitress came to them, asked what the Ser and the Lady would be having. Lance ordered them two flagons of ale, despite Morrigan's objections.

"So you're a Grey Warden now?" Bryland asked. He had fought alongside Bryce Cousland against the Orlesians, and so wasn't very upset to hear about Howe's death.

"Yes. I am," said Lance. "One of the last in Ferelden."

"That's very exciting," said Alfstanna. She looked at Morrigan and asked, "Is she just a perk of the job?"

Morrigan opened her mouth to speak defensively, but Lance cut in.

"She's a trusted ally, a friend," said Lance. He looked Morrigan in the eye, waited for her to calm. "More than a friend. She's saved my life more than once."

"Oh," Alfstanna said. She looked at Morrigan. "I meant no offense."

"None was taken," said Morrigan, through clenched teeth. "Perhaps we should get to business, Warden?"

Lance nodded. He fished a signed letter out of his pocket, set it on the table.

"This is a little something I found in the Alienage," said Lance. Alfstanna picked it up, scanned it. Bryland tried to read it, leaning up on his elbows.

"I don't believe it," she whispered. "Teyrn Loghain has been selling Elves into slavery!"

"Are you sure?" Bryland asked. Alfstanna nodded, slid the letter over to him.

"It has the royal seal. He's been selling Ferelden blood!"

Lance accepted their flagons and left a tip of a few silver on the waitress' tray. He slid one over to Morrigan, and began to gulp down his. He wasn't a drinker, not by trade, but he could have his moments. And this was one of their rare chances to relax.

Morrigan sniffed at the flagon, testing it. She put it to her lips and took a small sip. She recoiled from it, nearly gagged.

"What did you _drink_?" Lance asked her, taking another large gulp.

"Certainly not this… gruel."

Alfstanna laughed. "She should try the ale from Waking Sea."

"Is that an invitation?" Lance asked, smiling over the lip of his drink. She nodded, and thought back to the times of their childhood. She was a few years older than him, closer in age to Fergus, and so had always been the one to lead, often vying with Fergus for such a position.

"This is a long way from your mother's garden," she said. Lance nodded.

"Yeah," he said, and leaned back in his seat. "Miles."

She sighed, and offered an apology to him.

"I'm so sorry about your family," she said. "I can't believe Howe would do that."

"I can," said Bryland. "The Howe I knew died during the war. This man…"

"It must be Loghain's doing," said Alfstanna. "Why else would he acknowledge Howe as Teyrn of Highever? Bah! The Couslands supported the King even to his death. They just wanted them out of the way."

Lance nodded, frowning deeply. "You know the Landsmeet will be soon."

"You have my vote already," said Alfstanna. She grabbed his wrist tightly. "Just like the good old days. I have your back."

Bryland nodded, looking into his mug with bitterness. "I'll pass this along."

He took the letter, put it in his coat. Lance could trust Bryland. He would make sure that every noble in the tavern knew about Loghain's treachery before the day was done. And seeing as a few important persons had been released from Howe's dungeon, Lance had a feeling that support for Loghain was diminishing.

"After all this is over," said Alfstanna. "Once you've dealt with the Blight, what do you plan to do?"

Lance shrugged. "I don't know."

He glanced over at Morrigan, who looked away from shyly. He reached over, put his hand over hers.

Alfstanna saw the gesture, nodded to herself.

"You know," she said. "I would be glad to call you Teyrn."

Lance laughed at that.

"Me? Teyrn of Highever?"

Alfstanna nodded.

"You might not believe it, but we always knew it would be you."

Lance shook his head. He wouldn't accept such a title. Not now, not as long as he was a Grey Warden. No, better he focus on living for the next few hours.

Alfstanna looked at him, and then at Morrigan. With that sharp smile she wore when she was thinking of something to get him trouble with, she said, "Teyrn Lance Cousland and Teyrna Morrigan?"

Lance shook his head, thinking he liked the sound of it. Morrigan frowned, and stared into her mug, swirling the contents with a finger. She wasn't a fan of marriage, Lance had gathered. But there was no harm in daydreaming, was there?

"So, when is the Landsmeet starting?" Lance asked. "I mean, has everyone come who is coming?"

Alfstanna shook her head. "No, plenty of nobles are stalled by the Blight."

"Arl Wulff might not even bother," said Bryland. "He's all but lost West Hills."

Lance nodded glumly. The Blight had carried on while they were pissing away their time in the woods. Lance felt almost guilty for having enjoyed his time with Morrigan so much. He'd spent every night with her, laughing and loving. But Ferelden was dying by inches.

"We still have time, then," said Lance, glancing at Morrigan. "Not sure what else there is to do. Maybe tear off my own skin in frustration?"

"That would be one course of action," said Alfstanna. "Perhaps you should do something… useful?"

Lance snorted. "Maybe dream of being a Teyrn?"

Alfstanna laughed, slapped the table loudly, causing Morrigan to tense in irritation.

"Don't suppose I could convince you to marry my daughter? She's only turned fifteen this last spring, plenty of time to scoop her up before the suitors start coming out of the woodwork."

"Sorry, but I'm too young for that kind of debt," said Lance. Bryland laughed.

"Yes, if she spends any more of my money, I'll have to put her in a cloister!"

Morrigan was grinning lopsidedly, holding back a witty remark. She normally wouldn't have shown such restraint, but she knew that this wasn't the time or place to start speaking her mind, despite how much he wanted to. She would surely give Lance a good piece of her mind when they were in private, and he would just have to suffer through it. And he'd better not expect this sort of self-control from her in the future.


	59. The Landsmeet

He woke with a start, coughing and spitting a black substance onto the floor. He was shaking, cold sweat covering his body. Morrigan stirred beside him, sitting up and putting one hand on his shoulder.

"Are you alright, Warden?" she asked. He wiped his mouth, barely regarding her in the low light provided by the dying candle beside their bed. He nodded.

"Bad dreams," he said simply. There wasn't much she could do for that. Even her strange Wilds magic could do nothing to alleviate the nightmares of a Grey Warden.

A long moment passed and she could only sit there, running her hand across his shoulders in as comforting a manner as possible. She wasn't exactly an expert at this sort of thing, and her bedside manner required some work, but for Lance it was enough.

"It was him," he said finally, breaking the silence that was looming over them. "He was… talking to me."

"The Archdemon?"

"Yes."

She bit her lip, wanting to say more, to ask what it had told him, but she did not. He reached out for a goblet of water he'd set on the nightstand some hours ago, and his dog watched curiously.

Lance spoke again, "Alistair said that some of the older Grey Wardens can hear the Archdemon, understand it. I can. I don't know why."

He thought about Riordan, wondered if he too was having these terrible nightmares. He supposed not; an older Grey Warden could block them out after all. Who would _want_ these dreams?

He lay back down, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his hand, as if to rid his mind of those nightmares. It wouldn't work, he knew. As soon as he closed his eyes again he would be bombarded with more visions of howling dragons and implacable armies.

This was a Blight, truly.

And he was going to stop it, one way or the other. There was a Blight, and it was his duty to stop it, one way or the other. Even at the cost of his life, he supposed.

Morrigan lay next to him, watching him cautiously. She was trying to figure out how to reply to him, what to say. She didn't want to blurt out the wrong thing, to repulse him with her candidness.

He turned over, to look her in the eye as he always did. He didn't speak, nor did she. There wasn't anything _to_ say and that was the most agonizing part. She touched his cheek gently, using her thumb to trace the slight stubble that had grown since he'd last shaved.

He was a strong, competent man, but in many ways still a boy. She liked that in him; his easy enthusiasm and his honesty. He wasn't false nor was he manipulative. He didn't try to get his way where he couldn't have it, even as he persisted. He took charge of the things he could, and followed when he couldn't.

He was a natural leader, a warrior, a commander.

His smiles were real, and there was no pretense to him.

He wasn't her.

Calmly, quietly, he reached up, touched her arm, ran his hand up to hers. He held her, wet his lips as though he wanted to say something. But he didn't.

He made a sound a lot like a hum, deep, rhythmic. And she trailed her thumb to his lips, traced them.

"I do not know you," she whispered. His forehead wrinkled slightly, trying to understand her meaning. She wasn't sure she knew it herself. She cared about him, more than she should have. Every bone in her body screamed for her to stop, to kick him from the bed. Her mother would have spent hours scolding her, lecturing her, reminding her that the feelings they shared were false, too easily rotted and cast aside.

But she couldn't.

She instead said to him, "Tell me about yourself, about your life."

He hesitated. Where did he begin? He was so used to listening to her talk about herself, sitting there and just speaking was a completely alien concept to him.

"Are you like your father?" she prompted. He nodded.

"Yes."

"Who was your mother?"

"Teyrna Eleanor Cousland."

"Are you like her?"

"Yes, some say."

"You say you loved her?"

"I do."

She cringed when he said that. He loved his mother? Because she was kind? Caring? Because she nurtured him?

There was a time when she would have compared it to coddling and weakness, to failure as a parent. She would have defended her mother, her methods, even to her death. She'd been raised in the Wilds, as an apostate. There was no room for love and nurturing there.

But knowing that Flemeth had _never_ cared about her past her own needs, the knowledge that Flemeth was just biding her time, creating a vessel for possession…

Could she believe in even her own childhood?

He was so strong, so capable. And his life was almost the polar opposite of hers. He was raised in luxury, in comfort and he reviled it all. She was raised in hardship, in suffering and she wanted anything else.

She liked being here at the estate, being wrapped in warm sheets and eating fine foods. There were times when she could see his agitation, his annoyance at having servants follow him about. He wanted to get his own food, to sleep on rough grounds.

He was a severe man, so strong and brave and sure. He carried burdens that would crush lesser men. And he did it willingly. And yet there were times when he was able to lay those burdens down and be free, be happy. And she enjoyed seeing him that way, seeing his joy.

She wanted to make him happy. Just as he strove so hard to make her happy.

The Landsmeet would be in the morning. They would decide Ferelden's fate and then move on to the Blight. She tensed at the thought.

They spent the day in bed, the only day of rest and relaxation they'd had on this quest. Lance seemed genuinely happy for the first time a long while, and she caught on that he had finally faced Howe. She was glad for him. He'd finally conquered his demons.

They spent hours talking, laughing, in bouts of lovemaking. He tried to make the day last as long as he could, to get as much out of it as possible. She couldn't blame him. She tried to do the same. She found it was a lot harder for her.

But the morning eventually came, and she woke to find him dressing. He fumbled with his belt, hands shaking nervously. He didn't notice her at first.

"Lance?" she said. He turned suddenly, still shaky and tried to set her at ease with a smile.

"Oh. Hey," he said. She sat up, pursed her lips when she saw the difficulty he was having.

"This is it," she said. "This is what we have been working for."

He nodded to her.

"You are nervous."

"Yes."

"You should not be," she said. And she stood up, and he found himself unable to look away from her body. She was so beautiful, and he loved her so much. But he was painfully aware of himself and had to speak to relieve this nervous tension, this feeling of inadequacy.

"Please," he said, lifting the corner of the sheet for her to take it and cover herself. "It took me twenty minutes to get this far. I don't want to start over."

She smiled glumly, trying to hide her own trepidation, her own shaking hands. She wondered if it worked on him.

She dressed quietly, and Lance sat down at the foot of the bed, trying to quell a growing feeling of nausea and stealing glances at Morrigan.

She had to help him lace his boots.

When they were finally dressed, and he took a few sips from a wine battle to steady himself, they met in the main hall of the estate, with Alistair and Eamon and the others.

"The Landsmeet shall begin shortly," said Eamon. "All the nobles have arrived, and Loghain will not stand for any more stalling."

"I guess this is it then," said Lance. "This is really it."

Morrigan stood beside him, rigid. This was it.

They left the estate, flanked by a company of Eamon's men, and they began the march down the streets of Denerim to the Royal Palace, where they would take part in the meeting.

Lance and Morrigan and Alistair slipped to the back of the group, as per Eamon's recommendation. If Loghain was serious about stalling in any effort to oppose him, he might have just arrested them at the gate. They would instead slip in once the Landsmeet had begun.

No one would notice them.

They waited cautiously outside the gates of the palace, able to hear the shouts and jeers of the nobles in attendance of the Landsmeet.

When a few minutes had gone by, Lance decided that he was through waiting.

He pushed open the doors to the palace, swallowing hard.

Ser Cauthrien stood there, with a squadron of men.

"Not one more step, Warden," she said. "You cannot go any further."

"Cauthrien," Lance said. "Get out of my way."

She frowned at him, displeased by his unwillingness to relent. She looked at Alistair and said, "Alistair, if you were _really_ Maric's son you would already be in the Landsmeet, would you not?"

Lance sighed in frustration. He didn't want to have to kill her, but it was looking more and more like he had no choice.

"Cauthrien. Ser Cauthrien, surely you can see that Loghain needs to be stopped."

She hesitated, looked left and right as though she might find some witty response.

"I… owe him everything," she said. "But I have had… doubts. Terrible things must be done to win wars, to save Ferelden. Do not ask me to betray him."

"The things he has done to save Ferelden have only damned it," he said. He took a cautious step forward, put hands on her shoulders. "You are a knight of Ferelden. Stand aside. Let me do what needs to be done."

Cauthrien looked him in the eye, and he could see her wavering. She had to decide between duty and loyalty. It wasn't an easy decision, it could never have been. But finally she relented, and she stood aside, gesturing for her men to do the same.

"I love my country," she said. "I never wanted this… Please spare him, Warden. He has only done what he thought was necessary."

Lance nodded to her, knowing full well that there was no way he could spare Loghain. Not now. Not ever.

He swallowed what he presumed to be more nervous bile and stepped into the Landsmeet chamber.

Loghain stood before the clustered nobles, in the tail end of some impassioned speech. He saw the Warden and Alistair, and he grinned.

"And here's the man who would pull the strings," he announced, pointing at the Warden. Lance took that as his cue, and he continued walking, right up to where Loghain stood.

"Tell us, Warden, how will Orlais rule our nation? Will they send troops? Or just this puppet-prince?"

Lance took a breath, tried to keep strong. He felt Morrigan behind him, felt her touch his hand lightly. And he knew then that he could do this. He could stand against Loghain and the entire army if he needed to.

And he spoke, loudly, so the entire chamber rang with his voice.

"The Blight is the true threat, Loghain. Not Orlais."

And that issued a response from the crowd, much to Lance's surprise.

Arl Wulff, the Arl of West Hills who had lost everything shouted to be heard.

"The south is fallen, Loghain! Will you let the Darkspawn take all of Ferelden for fear of Orlais?"

"The Blight is indeed real, Wulff, but do we need Grey Wardens to fight it?" Loghain shouted back. That caused a greater stirring in the crowd, from those that had a deep respect for the Wardens and who knew of the Darkspawn's strength.

After all, would Ostagar have been a blood bath if they didn't need Grey Wardens?

"They claim that they alone can stand against the Darkspawn, yet they failed spectacularly at Ostagar! And they ask to bring with them four legions of chevaliers! And once we open our borders to chevaliers, can you really expect them to return from whence they came?"

"You allowed Howe to torture innocents," Lance said. And a greater roar of dissent rippled through the crowd. Bann Sighard, of Dragon's Peak, spoke then, angry.

"My son was freed from his dungeons! Some of the things done to him are beyond any healer's skill. I only thank the Maker that this Warden put an end to the bastard Howe!"

"Howe's crimes are his alone, and he will face the Maker for his deeds," said Loghain. Lance grit his teeth.

"You sold Fereldans into slavery."

"There is no slavery in Ferelden!" shouted Sighard. Bryland held aloft the letter Lance had taken from one of the slavers.

"This is his arrangement with the Tivinters!" shouted Bryland, invoking the name of the reviled country led by Blood Mages. "Signed with the Royal Seal!"

Loghain tried to smooth it out, tried to make the crime sound less than what it was.

"There was no way we could save the Alienage if the Darkspawn came. It is my duty to protect all of Ferelden and that includes the Elves! I only did what I could at a time when we could barely hold the Alienage!"

"Bullshit," Lance said finally, breaking Landsmeet decorum. Father wouldn't have approved but Lance was far beyond caring.

"Bullshit, Loghain," he said. "Lords and Ladies of the Landsmeet! Teyrn Loghain has crippled this nation! At a time when we – _we Fereldans_ – were most vulnerable he has instigated Civil War! He has instigated strife in the Circle of Magi! He has done everything in his power to forestall the Grey Wardens from doing what they were created to do! His own daughter stands against him!"

"What about my daughter, the Queen?" asked Loghain. "Where is she? Does she even still live?"

"I can speak for myself," shouted Anora, suddenly at the opposite end of the room. The entire chamber quieted, and all eyes turned to her. She was calm, sure of herself. She was far more comfortable in front of this crowd than Lance.

She looked over the watching nobles, the Warden, swallowed.

She opened her mouth to speak, and looking right Lance she said, "I am sorry, Warden."

And to the whole chamber she announced, "Lords and Ladies of Ferelden. This Warden is tearing our nation apart!"

Lance felt his guts turn to stone and seriously considered throwing up.

"You bitch," he muttered, and Morrigan squeezed his hand tighter.

"My father is trying to stave off the real threat to this nation, and these Wardens have done nothing but hamper his every move! Please, see reason and know that my father is what this country really needs! This Warden kidnapped for his own agenda. This Warden led Cailan to his death! And now this Warden seeks to put one of his own trusted followers on Ferelden's throne!"

Loghain grinned, seeing now his victory. He frowned at the Warden, and he cleared his throat.

"My Lords and Ladies! Our land has been threatened before! It has been invaded and lost and won times beyond counting! We Fereldans have proven that we will never truly be conquered so long as we are united. We must not let ourselves be divided now. Stand with me, and we shall defeat even_ the Blight itself_!"

The Landsmeet quieted. This was a call for a vote. And the nobles would decide the next ruler of Ferelden. Lance felt cold sweat on his back, felt Morrigan's hand gripping him, felt Alistair's hoarse breathing. Loghain was smiling, victorious, conquering. He was the Hero of River Dane, and he had won.

And then…

"South Reach stands with the Warden!"

"West Hills sides with the Warden."

"Dragon's Peak stands beside the Warden."

"The Vaughans side with the Warden."

"Waking Sea stands with Teyrn Cousland!"

"I stand with the Warden!"

The room erupted into applause, the victory clear one everyone's face. Lance felt a massive weight vanish from his shoulders, and thought that he might indeed vomit anyway. Morrigan released his hand, and let out a breathy laugh.

Alistair was just glad that he wouldn't be decapitated after all.

Loghain was not pleased. He growled, his displeasure growing within him until he shouted, "Traitors! Which of you stood against the Orlesian emperor when his troops flattened your fields and raped your wives? You fought with us once, Eamon. You cared about this land once! Before you got too old and fat and content to even see what you risk. None of you deserve a say in what happens here! None of you have spilled blood for this land in the way that I have! How dare you judge me!"

And he looked right at Lance.

And Lance drew his sword.


	60. Loghain

A duel to settle the fate of Ferelden. A duel to decide a king. A duel to defeat the Blight.

No pressure.

Alfstanna gleefully called down the rules: surrender or death. The Landsmeet would abide by the outcome.

What a way to run a country.

Loghain accepted gladly.

"I'll take care of this pup," he growled. "Ready yourself."

Lance nodded, raised his sword in salute. Loghain did likewise. And he charged.

Lance took the blade on his, shifted it right so that it rolled off his armored shoulder. He barreled into Loghain, feeling his shield crash roughly against his side. He used that, slid around onto his knees so that he could bring his dagger up into Loghain's back. The armor had a small gap there, and only let in the very tip of the dagger.

It was enough to cause Loghain to shout in pain, and send his shield rocking against Lance's shoulder.

It hurt, but gave him the leverage needed to roll back onto his feet.

Loghain came again, giving a war cry that caused Lance to hesitate. He barely raised his sword in time to block Loghain's. He pushed back, followed it up with another slash that was too easily parried by Loghain's sword.

He struck again, and again Loghain parried. And the Teyrn used his brute strength to bash Lance into the ground so that he struggled to keep Loghain from chopping him in half.

This was going nowhere.

Lance dropped his dagger, gripped Starfang with both hands and pushed upwards, roaring in effort. He shook Loghain off, and the old general snorted.

They backed off, circled each other. Loghain dropped his shield, gripped his own sword with both hands.

They clashed again, their swords meeting with a roar of sparks. They struggled, trying to get the upper hand. Loghain pushed, using all his fearsome might to force Lance back.

One step. Then another.

The wall was rapidly approaching, and the nobles parted. Loghain was winning.

So Lance pushed back.

He forced all his energy, all his weight forward, shoved against Loghain with all the force he could muster.

And with one furious shout, he pushed the blade back, gave himself room. And he struck out.

He brought his sword down, as hard as he could. Loghain blocked it, but the force range up his arms, caused him to drop to a knee. Lance slashed again and again, hoping that he could cause Loghain to give in, to give him the second he needed to chop into that clenched jaw.

But then he was falling, Loghain grasping his ankle. And the man was above him, raising his sword for the killing blow.

Lance sent Starfang shooting out, the tip biting into Loghain's armor, causing a small rivulet of blood to issue forth.

The crowd roared in excitement, the nobles growing restless, some shifting their support. The lesser banns looked about, trying to gauge the loyalties of their superiors, to align themselves with the winner. Whoever won, someone was getting executed, and it paid to not be on that person's side.

Loghain drove the point of his sword down, smashing into the stone floor of the chamber. Lance kicked out, snapped the blade.

Loghain reared back, arms wide to fight. Lance held his sword tightly, saw his rather lopsided advantage.

And he discarded the blade.

They would fight like men, like their barbarian fathers. So be it.

Loghain casually reached to his side, pulled the straps of his chest piece so that it clattered to the floor. Lance did the same.

They were left in plain clothing, with no armor to get in the way, to dull their fists.

Loghain shouted, and he charged forward.

Lance brought his forearms up, absorbed the charge. Loghain pinned him up against the wall, and Lance brought his elbow down, slamming as hard as could until the entire arm went numb. Loghain punched him hard in the gut, knocking the wind out of him.

Loghain followed that up with a slap to Lance's ear, setting him off balance.

There might have been a boot to his stomach, he couldn't quite tell. He was aware of Loghain over him, though, lifting him up by the shirt collar. Loghain punched him in the face and let go, allowing Lance to fall onto the ground.

He rolled onto his back, took a second to clamber away from Loghain as the man approached. They were both seething.

Lance rose to his feet, not at all as solid as he would have liked.

Loghain strode towards him, sure and strong. Lance readied himself. Loghain was a warrior of experience, having led entire armies to victory. He had years of fighting under his belt while Lance had barely been a year out of his castle. He would just have to make his youth and energy count.

He wobbled on his feet, looking barely able to stand. Plenty of nobles watched on, holding their breath. Loghain grinned humorlessly, making a large fist with his right hand.

He threw a hook, a knockout blow.

Lance raised his arm, blocked the punch, struggling to keep it from knocking him over. And he sent his fist forward, crashing into Loghain's nose. And he followed that with a low punch of his own, making Loghain double over. And kept the pressure up, slamming his head, bringing his elbow across his face.

Blood sprinkled the floor, falling from Loghain's mouth.

Lance made the mistake of thinking he'd won.

Loghain roared again, and he stood upright, arms outstretched. He barreled into Lance, knocked him to the rough stone floor. He swung his arms in wide arcs, smashing him again and again. Lance hoped that his face would stand up to the punishment, that he wouldn't break anything desirable in the attack.

He tasted blood, and he couldn't see. He was aware of Loghain roaring still, triumphant.

There was a pause in the onslaught. Lance turned his head, and opened his mouth wide enough for the blood pooling there to spill out.

Loghain jerked him up again, right into his fist.

Lance fell, hit the floor.

Loghain gave him another jerk, another sweeping punch.

And he lifted Lance again, punched him again.

He felt all the strength vanish from his muscles, and his body went slack. He couldn't keep up, not with Loghain. The man was a superior warrior, he was ready to admit.

Loghain pulled him upright, looking him in the eye, long enough to slam his forehead into Lance's. Stars took over his vision, and he might have passed out during. Loghain jostled him, shook him awake.

"You lose, Grey Warden," said Loghain, and he punched him again. He let Lance lay limp on the floor, gave a defiant kick to his ribs.

"Yield," he commanded. Lance didn't reply, unable to see through the haze descending on him. So Loghain demanded it again. "Yield."

Lance mustered up all the strength he could.

"Never."

So Loghain lifted him up, forced him to his knees. Loghain gripped his shoulders tightly, jerked him so that faced the crowd of nobles at the rear of the chamber. He wanted them to see their precious Grey Warden die, no stronger than the boy Loghain knew he was.

Lance spat out blood.

He looked over the crowd, tried to guess their reactions. A few of the nobles were horrified, others were anxious. He saw Alistair, the grim look on his face, the setting of his jaw. With Lance dead, Alistair was next. Morrigan watched, wide eyed. It was taking every ounce of her will to keep from intervening. She took a step forward as Loghain reached around Lance's throat, as he took hold of his jaw. Alistair's hand reached out, keeping Morrigan back.

_Please don't watch._

Loghain gripped him tightly, readying to break his neck in one quick motion.

And Lance reached behind him, put his hand behind Loghain's knee, and he pulled. Loghain fell back, crashed to the floor with an audible clap. And Lance was on top of him, slamming his elbow into Loghain's face again and again and again.

He sent his open palm flying across Loghain's jaw, brought a closed fist down. He pulled Loghain up by his shirt collar and slammed his head against the floor.

He lost track of time, lost all sense of space. He was just hitting Loghain, hitting him until… He didn't know what.

He stood, shaking. And he brought his foot down, slamming Loghain's stomach, ribs, whatever.

He reached down, and brought both fists down on Loghain's face until the man raised one limp arm, coughing and choking on his own blood.

Lance reached out, found his discarded dagger, and he held it high with both hands, Loghain unable to keep a steady grip on his wrists to stop him. They wrestled briefly, and Lance lowered the dagger to within a hair's breadth of the man's face.

"Enough!" he said at long last. "I yield."

Lance stumbled back, struggling to keep from finishing the job. He let go of the dagger, his tendons creaking. It clattered to the floor with a loud, metallic clang.

The hall was hushed, no one daring to whisper.

And then there was a cheer, loud and deafening. And it was met by several more, until the whole chamber rang with the voices of dozens of nobles and their hangers-on. Lance looked over the crowd dumbly, hardly able to believe that the cheering and applause was for him.

Morrigan approached, hands shaking. She was still wide-eyed and fearful, having seen him take the most horrendous beating of his life.

"I'm okay," he said when she was near enough to hear. She only nodded to him, raised one hand to his face.

Her touch was warm and gentle, and he liked it despite the throbbing pain of his entire body. And her touch became electric, her magic working to heal his wounds and ease his pain. The taste of copper abated, and his wounds didn't pain him anymore.

"You did well," she said. "You should be proud."

The crowd closed in around them, nobles reaching out to touch his shoulder, to shout approval. Loghain required the help of the few nobles willing to back him, and even then struggled to stand straight.

"I thought you were like Cailan," said Loghain, spitting out another mouthful of blood. "A boy trying to play at war. I was wrong."

Lance nodded coldly. Loghain smiled ironically.

"So what will it be?" he asked. And there was sword suddenly in Lance's hand, the sword he was expected to kill Loghain with.

"Wait!" a man shouted. Lance turned to see who it was, as did the entire room. Riordan, arrived just in time to see the victory.

Alistair stepped forward, his features relaxed some now that he was safely free from the threat of execution.

"Riordan? What are you doing here?"

"Leave this man alive," said Riordan. "We can use him. Let us put him through the Joining."

Lance felt his stomach do jumping jacks.

"Make him a Grey Warden? Are you completely insane?"

Anora stepped forward then, looking pale. She must have been horrified to see her father take such a beating.

"This Grey Warden Joining is often fatal, is it not? Think about it; if he passes, then you have a powerful general. And if he fails then you will have your revenge."

"She is right," said Riordan. "Grey Wardens are not judges. We will take whoever we can, whenever we can; criminals, blood mages, kings and princes. It makes no difference. Besides, there are only three of us in all of Ferelden right now, and there are some very compelling reasons for making Loghain a Warden."

Alistair looked on with a mixture of shock and horror. His face was white, and he struggled to put voice to his thoughts.

Finally, he said, "No. No! Riordan… This man let King Cailan die! He killed every other Warden in Ferelden at Ostagar and blamed _us_ for the deed! He tortured _you_! He's stalled our progress every step of the way! Becoming a Grey Warden is supposed to be an honor, and I will not call this man brother!"

"He's right," said Lance. Riordan looked appalled. And then a sudden realization dawned on him, and he looked around at the surrounding nobles.

"I see," he said. And he backed away.

Loghain stood tall, chin up. He was ready. "Go ahead, Warden. I can face the Maker knowing that Ferelden is in your hands."

Lance nodded, raising the big sword with both of his hands. He worked his fingers, making sure he had a tight grip.

Anora stumbled forward, hands reaching out to plead for her father's life.

"No! Don't do this! I command you to stop!"

Loghain raised his hand, trying to quiet his daughter.

"Hush, Anora. It's over," to Lance he said, "Daughters never grow up. They stay six years old with scraped knees and pigtails. Make it quick, Warden."

Lance nodded, suddenly not so happy to be killing the man that had stood in opposition to him from day one.

He made it quick.


	61. Before the Storm

They travelled to Redcliffe, Lance still smarting from the beating he received at the hands of Teyrn Loghain. Anora was less than thrilled, though Lance didn't really care too much about her feelings as this point. Alistair had been upset that he was to be made King still, and that he was to marry Anora. She agreed, and the Landsmeet accepted it almost unanimously.

Lance then spent hours trying to explain to Alistair that he was truly qualified to be King of Ferelden. Based solely on the fact that he would irritate Anora to no end. He hadn't found that funny.

"Alistair, do you hear yourself?" Lance asked. He came close to punching Lance across the face.

"What could possibly make you think that _I'd_ be the best choice for king? I have trouble remembering which foot the boot goes on sometimes."

"There. You just said it."

"What?"

"What sort of person doesn't want to be king?"

"I… What?"

"You. You're a good person, and that's the sort that needs to be on that throne."

Alistair stared at him seriously, trying to work over that logic in his mind. He deserved to be on the throne because he didn't want it? Seriously?

"You saw Anora at the Landsmeet," Lance said. "She's a good ruler, I give her that, but she only cares about being Queen, whether or not it's in Ferelden's best interest. You care because it's the last thing you want."

Alistair blinked at him.

"I suppose so…" he said. He looked around, trying to find something to focus on that didn't involve him actually on the throne. "I… I'll do it."

"That's what I like to hear."

And so the journey to Redcliffe had Alistair muttering and cursing to himself, and sometimes thinking that Lance was right. He didn't want to be King, but as long as he had Anora to back him up, and didn't have to do any real work… Well that wasn't so bad, was it?

The Blight had already passed into the Bannorn, where the Darkspawn were almost unopposed, thanks to the debacle at Ostagar. The armies the two Wardens had gathered were assembling at Redcliffe. Eamon and Teagan had sent out the call, and there was no shortage of volunteers. These Wardens had put themselves on the line for Redcliffe, so Redcliffe would put itself on the line for them.

Lance felt almost giddy, almost sick. He switched between the two in fairly equal measures.

He had wanted this for so long. He'd spent hours at Highever Castle dreaming of this, of being a hero in charge of a vast army. The reality was overwhelming. But he accepted it.

There had been a time when he would have traded anything to go back to the way things were. He would have given whatever it cost to have his family back, to be a bored noble again.

It was different now.

He had grown, changed. He was stronger, smarter, a better person entirely. He had done things he could never have imagined himself doing, had become a hero already. He wasn't just the bored noble wishing for glory and honor on the battlefield; he was a man now, the champion of a nation, the commander of armies.

He was a Hero.

And he was in love.

And as he looked across at Morrigan, as he pulled his sword from one of the Darkspawn that had invaded Redcliffe, he knew why it had all happened the way it did. He knew why his mother and father had perished at Rendon Howe's hands, why Ostagar had been a blood bath. He knew why he had come close to death a hundred times since.

Because he was supposed to find her. He was supposed to fall in love with her. He had lived his life through hell and torment so that he could truly, honestly love her.

And he did.

"Are you alright, Warden?" she asked, brow furrowed with concern. He was smiling, thinking about her.

"I'm just fine," he said, and she shook her head confused.

Castle Redcliffe had held against the Darkspawn onslaught, had broken their forces on its great walls as they rushed the bridge. There were bodies stacked so high that the Wardens had to throw them into Lake Calenhad to pass through.

But there was no Archdemon, and this was hardly the Blight's full force.

So what was happening?

Eamon, Teagan and Riordan stood in Castle Redcliffe's main hall, talking about something in a very animated fashion.

"What's going on?" Lance demanded, striding in purposefully. He was still bruised and smarting – Morrigan's magic could only do so much and she would be horrified if he let Wynne near him – but he was trying his damndest to look like an army commander.

Riordan turned, looking more haggard than he had when Lance first met him, if that were even possible.

"The Blight is turning northeast. It will attack Denerim," he said. Lance couldn't keep his jaw from dropping open.

"What? We just came from Denerim!"

"They didn't attack here as we initially thought," said Eamon. "This was just a feint."

"Well who said they were coming here?" he demanded, looking about the roomful of knights and Dwarves and other soldiers. Riordan cleared his throat.

"I could only guess at their intent," he said. "I got close enough to see their movement, nothing more. But on the way here I was able to hear the Archdemon."

Lance shivered at the thought. The dreams were coming stronger, and this "Urthemiel" was calling to him more urgently now.

"So he tricked us?"

"It would look like it."

Lance sat at the edge of a long wooden table, knocking aside ales and plates as he did. He felt sick. He couldn't help but think of all the people that were being massacred in Denerim. Thousands. The casualties…

He could only hope that they had enough warning to board ships to cross the Waking Sea to the Free Marches.

He looked at Alistair, at Morrigan.

They were both trying not to meet his gaze, to keep him from guessing their thoughts.

"What do we do?" Lance asked helplessly. Eamon gave a heavy sigh, and he too sat on the edge of the table.

"We cannot march tonight," he said. It was true. The sun was already setting on the battle, and the soldiers would be in no fighting shape by the time they reached Denerim. It was a whole day's trek by foot, and longer when marching with a full army.

"In the morning, then," said Lance, unable to clear his mind of the images of burning buildings and screaming women.

"Yes," said Eamon, and he sighed. "We may be able to reach Denerim by nightfall."

Lance nodded, and he breathed out slowly, still feeling like he might vomit. He reached over, found Morrigan's hand and held it for comfort. She returned the gesture, as stiffly as she could. It made her uncomfortable to be the recipient of such affection, he gathered. And he was sorry for it, but he couldn't bear her problems and his and those of the entire country at once. He had to take it one at a time.

"You should rest," said Eamon. "You have a room prepared. Sleep. You will need it."

Riordan stepped forward, looked at both Lance and Alistair.

"There is something we must discuss in private. Grey Warden business. Please come and see me right away."

They nodded glumly, and Lance felt jumping jacks in his stomach again. He wanted to be sick.

But then that wave of calm sureness washed over him, and he knew he could do it. He would do it because he had no choice, because there was no one better for the job.

"I'll be with you shortly," Lance said to Morrigan, and he stood. He and Alistair followed Riordan up to the castle's second floor, to his room.

The man was serious, and Lance had no idea what Grey Warden business the man could have meant to discuss with them. There was nothing pertaining to the coming battle that they couldn't say in front of their army commanders was there? Perhaps he wanted to talk about something pertaining to their Taint? That was Grey Warden business at its finest, wasn't it?

Regardless the two followed him nervously into his room, shutting the door behind them. Lance stood, clasped his hands behind his back so that they wouldn't see him shaking.

"What's this about?" Lance asked.

Riordan sighed, and he looked right at the two Wardens.

"Do you know how to kill the Archdemon?"

Lance shrugged. This was Grey Warden business? The Archdemon was a dragon! Or close enough to it. And he had already slain two. Or one-and-a-half if Flemeth didn't count fully.

"I thought we could try hacking its head off," said Lance. "See where that got us before we did anything fancy."

Riordan nodded, and sighed again, as though he had confirmed some suspicion. And Lance realized that he had.

"Oh, Maker," Lance said, hand going to his mouth. Alistair looked at him in shock.

"What? What's going on?"

"There's some trick, isn't there?" Lance said. "That's why you wanted us to recruit Loghain."

Riordan nodded. He didn't look too upset. Instead, his features solidified, he became stalwart, like a Grey Warden should be. And he was calm when he spoke.

"Have you ever wondered why only a Grey Warden can end the Blight?"

"I thought it was exaggeration," said Alistair. "I thought it was just because Grey Wardens were so instrumental in the First Blight."

Riordan shook his head.

"The Archdemon – Urthemiel – is an Old God, corrupted by the Darkspawn. And when he is killed his soul will travel to the nearest Darkspawn and become an Archdemon once again. Because Darkspawn are soulless."

Lance felt a pit in his stomach, and chills ran up his back. He suddenly knew what Riordan was driving at. The Darkspawn were soulless. And that was why the Grey Wardens drank of their Taint during the Joining. That was why they alone could sense the Darkspawn.

Because they were becoming part Darkspawn.

"The Grey Warden that strikes the killing blow against the Archdemon will die," said Riordan. "Because the Archdemon's soul will seek out the Warden and their souls will cancel each other out."

Alistair stared blankly. He was pale, and Lance imagined that he looked much the same, his cheeks cold.

"As the senior Warden present," said Riordan. "I will try to make sure that I am the one to strike the killing blow. But should I die before the Archdemon is slain, it will fall to you to make that killing blow, and sacrifice yourself in doing."

The room was quite, cold and imposing. Though it was lit by a small fireplace, and though it was furnished with the finest linens available in Ferelden, it felt a lot like a prison, its walls closing in. Lance realized then that he was given no other choice. And as he looked at Alistair, he spoke without thinking.

"I will do it," he said. "I will make that final blow."

Riordan nodded to him, lips drawn in a thin line. Alistair looked at him in disbelief.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Alistair asked. "I could do it. I could die in your place, be honored as a King. And you would get the chance to live."

Lance shook his head.

"I can't ask you to do that, Alistair. I'll do it."

"Then it is decided," said Riordan. "I have something to say to Lance. Alistair, you should go to sleep now, prepare yourself for the coming battle."

Alistair nodded, giving Lance one last look. He seemed in awe, as if he were looking at some hero of legend. Lance shook his head. He wasn't. He was just a Grey Warden now, and he had a duty. Maybe some hundreds of years later, during the next Blight, the Grey Wardens would look back at him as though he were a hero. But today, he was a man.

Riordan spoke, offering his assurances that Lance would be dying for a cause greater than he could know, if it should come to that. He offered some last minute advice, told him that their best chance to confront the Archdemon at Denerim would be to get to the highest point in the city, where they would be like lures to the beast. And that meant scaling Fort Drakon, the tallest tower.

Lance nodded, already feeling numb.

He wasn't listening.

He was thinking of Morrigan. How would he ever tell her? What would she say to him? They had made a deal not to allow each other to go into danger alone, and now this… Would she be devastated? Would she ask for him to stay the night with her? Or would she shrink away from him, reject him at long last?

He sat down in Riordan's room, feeling as though he could not stand any longer. He needed a minute to breathe.

"I will try to ensure that I am the one to make the killing blow," said Riordan. "I promise that your sacrifice will only come should I fail."

"That's leaving a lot to chance," Lance said. "Hell, we're jinxing it by just talking about it."

Riordan nodded.

"You know Duncan and I were friends? We came into the Order together."

"You did?"

"Yes. And do you know what we were told when our Commander told us of this?"

Lance looked up, finding himself cold, shut off to the world. He expected that he should feel some powerful sorrow, lament his role. He should cry, or refuse, or run, or _something_.

But instead he sat and listened to Riordan.

"'It is not how you die that is important. It is how you live.'"

Lance nodded. That sounded exactly like how he would expect a useless platitude to sound. But somehow it made sense to him.

"Do you feel that you have lived a worthy life?" asked Riordan. Lance thought for only a second.

Morrigan.

"Yes," he said. "I have. And I can make this sacrifice no matter what."

And he would. For her. To know that she was safe.

Outside the room, as Alistair exited, he was surprised to find Morrigan standing there, leaning against one wall, tapping her foot in agitation.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked. She regarded him with cold indifference.

"Oh, that's right," he said. "Ignore me. Real mature. And you talk about me being a child?"

He gave a short laugh. And then he stopped, realized that his best friend, his comrade had just pledged to die in Alistair's place, and that he had stupidly agreed. He looked up at Morrigan, feeling his shoulders slump and seeing that she too looked concerned about something.

And finally she said, "If you had to do something terrible to someone you love, to save them, would you do it?"

He jumped back. What a question, and from her?

"You love someone?" he asked, trying to keep a trace of humor in his voice to distract himself from the absurdity of the conversation, of the heavy weight in his chest. She looked away from him, at her shoes, almost… shyly? Did she ever get shy?

"Yes," she said. And he couldn't say anything, couldn't find any comment he could make, any joke, any insult. For the first time since he'd been forced to know her, he felt as though he was hearing speak openly, honestly. And he thought he knew who she meant.

"I see," he said. And with a sigh he answered. "Yes. Absolutely."

And he pushed past her, trying to keep her from hearing his voice break. And as he did, he thought he could see tears falling from her eyes. And he convinced himself that he didn't. Even as she slowly entered Lance's room, even as he heard the door close behind him, even as he heard Lance's heavy boot steps as he entered after her, he made himself believe that he hadn't heard her voice shake when she spoke, that she hadn't been crying for him, that she wasn't about to do something terrible to save his life.

Instead he went to his own room, sat on the edge of the bed, and wept for his friend.


	62. The Promise

Lance grasped the door handle, a little too stunned realize that his foot was blocking the door from opening. He stumbled inside, still feeling cold, still feeling a little sick. He was distant, his mind a million miles from wherever he was now.

He kept thinking about the Archdemon. About dying. He knew that Riordan would take the first go at it, that he would try to be the one to kill the Archdemon and thus die. But he couldn't shake the feeling that Riordan would be killed by the Archdemon before he could make the killing blow. He couldn't shake the feeling that he would die in Riordan's stead.

Or they would all die. That seemed just as likely. He knew that he would have to tell Morrigan somehow. She would catch on eventually, at about the time he fell dead from killing the damn thing.

So he didn't notice that Morrigan stood in his room, facing the fire. It didn't surprise him, not at first. They'd spent so many nights together that it only seemed natural for her to stay with him. And with the battle coming she was probably interested in one last night if things went south. He would have been.

But then he noticed that she was standing rigid, back stiff, as though she were trying to seem nonchalant. She turned, regarded him with a curt nod.

"Are you surprised to see me?" she asked. Lance shook his head, wiping the dumb look off of his face. The feeling of cold hands around his heart took over, and he knew that he would have no choice but to tell her what he'd learned now.

"No," he said. "I'm… glad to see you."

She shook her head, and he realized that there was something far more serious that she wanted to talk about. He was suddenly nervous.

"I did not come here to discuss sentimentalities," she said. And he shut the door behind him. He wasn't nervous. He was terrified. She was serious, and she looked at him as though she was trying to look past him, to not face him. What was wrong? Was she up to something? Had he done something? Maybe she'd finally decided to end it?

"What's going on?" he asked. "There's something up with you."

"I know that a Grey Warden must die to kill the Archdemon," she said. Lance swallowed hard. How the hell did _she_ know? How-

"_Consider this repayment for me saving your lives."_

It seemed like centuries ago, standing outside Flemeth's hut in the Wilds, Morrigan and her refusal to go with the Wardens. And he wanted to vomit. Of course… Flemeth had saved their lives. And she never cared about the Blight. Never.

He reached out, grabbed the chair nearest him, pulled it from under the small table. He struggled to sit down, to listen to what Morrigan had to say. He stared at the wall, examined the holes and such.

"I offer you a way out," she said, moving to sit at the edge of the large bed. She reached over, ran her hand along the sheet, testing it. "The loop in your hole."

"What are you saying?" he asked. She cleared her throat.

"Lay with me," she said. "Here. Tonight. From our union a child will be conceived, and bear the Taint that currently festers in your body. The child will act as a beacon. When the Archdemon is slain the soul will be transferred to the child, sparing the Warden."

Lance was silent, his hand curled into a tense fist on the table and he continued to stare at the wall. She wet her lips and tried to continue.

"'Tis a ritual taught to me by Flemeth. 'Tis the reason I was sent with you."

She waited for a reply, one that never came. She felt awkward, folded her hands on her lap to have something to do.

"Some would call this ritual blood magic, but 'tis only a name. What is important is that you will be able to do what no other Warden has done; slay an Archdemon and live as a hero."

Another tense silence, and she couldn't even hear the Warden's breathing. She was suddenly very nervous, more so than she had ever been around him. He had a way of setting her at ease with his candidness, with his emotions. He was reserved now, and quite unlike she had ever seen him. She imagined he was angry.

"'Tis a ritual, performed on the eve of battle. I would have told you about the sacrifice before, would you have believed me. I doubt that you would have. And so I waited."

His fingers drummed softly on the table. She couldn't see his face and could only guess at what he was thinking. She hoped he was considering it, that he was weighing his options.

So she continued speaking, trying to assuage whatever fears he might have had, trying to let him know about the ritual as fully as she could manage.

"The child will bear the essence of the Old God, not the Archdemon. It will not be evil, it will not be harmed. The child will represent the resurgence, the freedom of ancient powers," and then came the hard part. She cleared her throat, fighting the tightness there, the ache in her eyes that begged her not to. But she had to. She knew she had to. This would hurt, but she _had_ to. "After this… you will allow me to walk away. I will raise the child alone. As I wish. And you will not follow."

He still didn't say anything, and she feared any number of reasons why he would remain silent. Perhaps he had shut her out? Perhaps he didn't believe her? Maybe he was too hurt to speak?

"…If you refuse… then I will leave right now. And you will not see me. Ever."

She had warned him that he would regret her, that he would regret making her feel the way she did about him. And she would regret it too.

She stood, tried to muster up all her courage, tried to gather up all her willpower. And she crossed that small distance between them, reached to put a hand on his armored shoulder.

"Warden…" she took a breath. "If you refuse, then there are other options… Alistair could-"

And before she could finish the Warden was up. The table was left smashed in two by one mighty fist blow, and he was upon her. She was only dimly aware of the fact that her back was now against the stone wall, that her hands were around his wrist, that he held her by the neck, that his dagger was against her throat.

She was too concentrated on that hurt expression, tearful eyes, the pain playing across his features, the teeth clenched in bitter rage, the shallow, unsteady breaths.

And he spoke in a hoarse whisper, the dagger pressed tightly against her neck, just gently enough to not draw blood.

"Tell me why I shouldn't," he said. And she realized that he was begging. "Tell me why I should let you live?"

She watched him, tried to estimate his next move, failed utterly. She wasn't afraid. She knew that she deserved little more, that it would better if he just severed her head from her body. She wanted him to.

But she said, in a light, fearful voice that betrayed all the secret feelings she had for him, all those emotions she'd kept locked away for so long, "I warned you. Every day, every step of the way, I _warned_ you. I begged you to end this, to end _us_. But you insisted. I'm so sorry, Warden."

"Was it a lie?" he asked. She heard his voice breaking, saw the first tear roll down his cheek.

"No," she said. And she was, for once, being honest. "No, 'twas not. Flemeth sent me for this. But I had not… Caring for you was not part of the plan."

"Don't you dare say that, you…" he hesitated. The blade at her throat wavered. "Don't. Take it back. Tell me you never loved me. Tell me I was fooling myself. Say it."

She tensed, wondering if she should, if it would be easier that way.

"I cannot," she said. And the Warden seethed. He spat at the floor and tried to wipe his eyes on his shoulder. He was shaking and flushed and he was unlike anything she had ever seen before.

"Why? Why are you doing this? I killed Flemeth, I did it for you. What do you want from me?"

"There is nothing that would make me change my mind," she said. "I… do not wish your death. If this will save your life then I want it all the more."

He was shaking. But not from rage she realized. The blade at her throat was suddenly gone, clattering to the floor. He thrashed at the air, as though this were an enemy he could defeat with his hands. And he slammed a fist against the wall, cracking the stone.

"Why?" he demanded. "Why? Why? _Why?_ Did I… was there something I did?"

"No."

"_Then_ _why?_"

"Because. Because I love you more than anything," she said finally. "Because I do not wish to see you die. Not now. Not ever."

He stared at her, his entire body quivering. She had only seen him anywhere close to this once in the months she'd known him. When he had mourned the loss of his family. And that hurt her more than she ever thought she could be hurt.

"You love me," he said to himself. And he leaned against the far wall, burying his face in his arm. "You love me. I've wanted to hear those words for so long. I would have done anything you asked, would have burned this entire planet to dust if you asked. And now you want to leave me."

"I am sorry, Warden," she said. "I wish that there could be another way. I wish…"

"No. Don't. You don't get to wish for anything," he rounded on her, still livid, still seething, still a mass of angry, misplaced rage. "You don't get to say that. You don't… You don't even care."

"I do care, Warden."

"No you don't. You were plotting this from day one. You knew – you _knew_ and you let me fall in love with you."

"I did not…"

"You let me make a fool of myself. You let me say things…"

"Warden…"

"And you let me believe that you felt the same, that you were even capable of loving someone else."

She bowed her head, listened to him. She could feel his panic, his helplessness. This was a battle that he could not win. And she realized what she had done. For him, this was Howe's betrayal, this was Ostagar. He kicked a chest, cracking the wood. He grabbed the chair, sent it smashing to pieces against the wall.

"Morrigan," he said, chest heaving in tired, ragged breaths. "I love you. Do you even understand what that means? Do you even know?"

He reached down, picked the dagger up from off of the floor. There was a moment when she thought that he might actually kill her, that he would kill them both. And she wouldn't have been surprised.

Instead he turned it around in his hand, thrust it towards her pommel first.

"Do it," he said. And she regarded the blade with all the fear and trepidation she had fought to control every night she spent with him. "Do it. Kill me."

She shook her head, unable to form words, unable to speak. Not now.

"It's the same thing," he said, voice becoming hoarse and rasping. He was fighting himself, fighting all the pent up rage and tears and screams. He was on the edge. And he was ready to jump. "It's the same thing, Morrigan."

"I love you," she said again. The words came out so easily, and they felt so good to finally say. And that hurt her even more. She wanted to cry, to scream. She wanted to hold him and tell him she was sorry and beg his forgiveness. But she could not. Not now.

"You can't," he said. "You can't do this and say that. It isn't… you can't…"

"Please, Warden," she said. "Please. If you have any feelings for me – any at all – please accept that it will make what must be done easier…"

"I can't…"

"Please."

She stepped forward, reached out. She touched him, and he shook harder, as though he were afraid of her. The dagger fell to the floor once again, and it stayed there.

"Please stay," he said. He begged. He was a wreck, and his body was wracked by forceful sobs that he tried to suppress. "Please don't go. Stay with me. I'll do anything, please just stay."

He was crying, openly, and she reached up to wipe away the tears, unable to stop them. And she fought back her own, tried to be strong for them both. She didn't know if it worked.

His hands were on her shoulders, lightly pushing her back, giving him space to speak once more.

"I'll never see you again," he said. And his voice was quivering now, and he sobbed without shame.

"No," she answered.

And she reached up, held his head in her hands, guided him to her. She kissed him, and she could taste his tears. And he could taste hers. He gave her another gentle push.

And his demeanor was changed.

His face was solid, stoic. He wasn't shaking, wasn't sobbing. A few tears still slid down his cheeks, but he looked determined. He looked like he had when he scaled the High Dragon so many months ago.

"I will find you," he said. "_I will find you._"

And she kissed him again, gently reaching to unbuckle his armor.

And she whispered, barely able to hide her own sorrow, her own pained despair.

"Cast aside thoughts of the ritual, my love, and let us make this last night one to remember."


	63. Battle of Denerim

He didn't say anything.

The whole march back to Denerim, he was silent.

Alistair didn't dare ask what Morrigan had done.

Morrigan didn't dare speak to him, for fear of shattering him beyond repair. As it was he looked to be on the verge of complete breakdown. He'd spent the rest of the night after the Ritual staring at the ceiling, completely blank.

She tried to talk then, tried to assure him that she enjoyed their time together, that he was the only person she could honestly say she loved. He didn't reply.

"I will not forget you," she said. And he turned to her then, no more tears, no more anger. He spoke in cold, even tones that betrayed no emotion.

"I have nothing," was all he said. And then he continued to stare blankly at the ceiling, unresponsive. He remained so for hours, and was in the same state the following morning. It took her most careful prodding to get him ready to march, ready to face battle.

She wondered if he would be able to fight, to lead. She was worried that he'd stopped caring, that he would be just fine with the Blight winning.

Alistair gave her a couple of dirty looks, but had said nothing.

If Riordan or Eamon noticed, they must have chalked it up to determination on his part. Or fear. The Ritual was a secret between her and the Warden. Not even Alistair yet knew. And she was glad.

They could see smoke rising from Denerim over the horizon. The darkening sky was lit by countless fires. Whatever soldiers Denerim had been able to scrape together had simply not been enough. Thanks to Loghain's actions there probably weren't enough soldiers outside of Redcliffe to even be called an army.

Lance had changed that. He'd brought together a force comprised of all the principle forces of Ferelden. He wasn't a tactical genius, and had left much of the actual strategy to Eamon and Teagan and the Dwarves who were experienced in such things.

They had no cavalry, no real tactical assets to speak of. It all relied on the Wardens' ability to get to grips with the Archdemon. They wouldn't use any fancy maneuvers; just smash into the Darkspawn lines and get through the city to Fort Drakon. Hopefully the Archdemon would take the bait.

They crested a small hill to see down into Denerim. The Darkspawn had done a fair job of sacking the city. Bodies of those few defenders that remained in Denerim had been strung up before the gate, macabre examples for any who would try to fight.

Lance was still didn't speak, didn't emote, didn't show any outward sign that he still cared.

And Morrigan felt that she'd made the greatest mistake of her life, and she wished that she could take it back.

But she knew that it had to be this way, that there was simply no other way it could have ended. It needed to be this way. And he had to live. That was the greatest the gift she could give him, and she hoped that there would be a day when he could finally accept it.

Alistair did his best to give a rousing speech to the men, though he was obviously out of his league. He called Lance to stand beside him, to hold him up as an example of greatness. Lance stared impassively at the army, looking to them like an implacable warrior of supreme skill.

He looked to Morrigan like a child.

Shale loomed imposingly over the human members of the army, strategically placed to provide a moral boost. Lance stepped away from Alistair, stood at the head of the army.

Alistair gave the order to charge, taking up his position by the King's Banner. He was going to war like a true Fereldan King. And he would be facing the Archdemon alongside Lance and Riordan.

They stormed forward, Morrigan doing her best to stay near Lance. She was fairly certain that she could be on the other side of the planet and the Ritual would still work, but of course she could not be positive. Besides, she did desire to remain near to him, even if he was nothing but cold to her.

The Darkspawn hadn't expected a counterattack, though the Archdemon had surely sense the three Wardens so near. Lance's signal would have been considerably weaker, given his status as a new recruit. Morrigan wondered if the Archdemon could sense the child growing in her belly, if it could so called be a child at this point.

Lance raised Starfang, held it close to his body as they met the Darkspawn line. And then he was slashing, hacking, spinning, killing whatever was in reach. The Ritual may have broken him but his ability to fight was unhampered. Perhaps even refined.

He killed the Darkspawn.

He shattered their lines. He was an army unto himself. Morrigan and Wynne and the Circle Mages provided what magical support they could, launching fireballs or freezing groups of Darkspawn in their tracks. They made fast work of those few Darkspawn left to guard the gate.

Lance finally made a gesture betraying his emotions; a slight twitch of the corners of his mouth. He was displeased that the Darkspawn had been so easily beaten back, even as he stepped over a pile of bodies.

He wanted more.

Riordan was quick to speak, looking ready to charge off into the fray.

"This is it," he said. "You should only bring a few of your companions with you, leave the rest to guard the gate and keep the Darkspawn from flooding the city."

Lance nodded. The army was already moving through Denerim, seeking out the Darkspawn and engaging them. Lance looked at his companions.

He didn't speak.

He looked at Morrigan, and then at Alistair. He gave a nod of his head, indicating for them to follow. He centered his gaze at Oghren, and then gestured for the gate.

"This is then, Warden?" asked Oghren, hefting the axe onto his shoulder. "Well, I just want to say… I sodding salute you, Warden. Let's show 'em our hearts, then show them theirs."

Lance nodded, reaching out to shake Oghren's hand. The Dwarf gave a final laugh before turning to the gate to orchestrate its defense. He wasn't a bad choice to command the few soldiers that would remain behind, having led men against the Darkspawn in the depths of the Deep Roads.

Shale looked about as pleased as a Golem could, having finally gotten the chance to squish something.

"I suppose this when we exchange pleasantries?" it asked him. He shrugged, looked at the ground. It was clear that he didn't care too much about what the Golem had to say. Shale huffed and said, "Good luck storming the castle."

Lance turned to leave, but Morrigan stopped him.

"I…" she hesitated, trying to think of something to say. She was sweating now, fearful. She felt an odd pressure in her chest, and the urge to just reach out and hold him tight. She had never felt anything like this before, even those many nights she lay with him. She had never felt something so insistent. She wanted to hug him to her, to just stay that way for eternity.

She didn't want to leave, she realized. She wanted to do anything but. She wanted to stay with him, to sit there. She would have done anything to be able to. And then it hit her.

She was leaving him. She would be without him for the rest of her life. Never again would she see him, and never would he see her.

And she felt the weight of crushing sadness. And now she wanted to just lie on the ground and never get up.

But she could not. She had to help him, she had to be there for him, even if this was the last time.

"I am truly sorry, my love," she said. And her arms moved without her permission, wrapping around his waist. And she stepped closer to him, close enough to lay her head on his armored chest, to feel his breath. "I am so, so sorry."

And she felt him stir, hoped that he might return the gesture, perhaps even kiss her one last time, tell her that he loved her still.

His hands went to her shoulders, and there was a gentle push. And then it became more forceful, shoving her away from him.

"Stop it," he said, in his voice was almost too weak, too meek to be heard. She looked up at him, horror playing on her face.

And she nodded sadly.

She couldn't fault him. After all, this was her doing.

And she followed him into the city, into the market where she had marveled at the tradesmen there, where she had asked him to kill Flemeth.

Perhaps it was even the place where she fell in love with him.

It was burning now.

And he drew his sword, cut down the Darkspawn that charged. Ogres, dozens of them. And he fought, hacking and slashing. They fell all around him, and he fought with the ferocity of any Tainted creature, no regard for life in any form. Alistair backed away from the carnage, wondering he should even bother to wade in. He was doing a good job of killing them.

He ripped out guts, severed arms and heads. The Ogres tried to grab them, only to lose their entire hands in the process.

And he never once made any indication of rage or hate or whatever was fueling him now. He stared on at the enemy, quiet. There was no war cry, none of the subtle signs of focus he often displayed when fighting. His brow lacked that curious wrinkle she'd become fond of, and he was unfettered by the gore covering his hands.

And finally the Ogres stopped coming, and the dead lay in massive piles that he had climb to get past. Morrigan and Alistair followed him.

Alistair gave her another dirty look, accusing her of causing this. She didn't meet his gaze.

Denerim was in chaos. They passed through the Alienage, the quickest path from the market to the fort. Riordan had gone ahead, had gathered what men he could to top the fort. He would lure the Archdemon in. And as soon as it realized the threat, the Archdemon would summon its army. And the fewer troops it had, the better.

The Elves of the Alienage had gathered to bravely defend the only homes they had. It was something Morrigan could respect, if they had only showed such courage against their human oppressors. They recognized the Wardens from their prior visit, and they cheered when he charged in.

The Darkspawn seemed to recognize him, too. And they hesitated when he came charging, sword pointed right at the heart of their commander, singling him out. He roared in challenge to the Warden. There was no return, just a silent step, a casual flick of the wrist, and the Darkspawn General was headless.

And the men he had commanded were dying in droves.

Alistair followed the Warden in, slashed left and right haphazardly, trying to do what damage he could. Lance was already wading deep into the Darkspawn lines, letting them surround him. A few got close enough to stick him with their blades, but they could not pierce the armor he wore and were inevitable cut down.

Morrigan spat flames from her fingertips, cut a swath through the Darkspawn to meet him. She lashed out with her staff, cracking the skulls of whatever creatures dared to present themselves. And she used her magic to its fullest extent, shooting bolts of lighting, fire, and ice. She summoned rocks to smash the Darkspawn, and she called upon the ethereal forces of nature to make their very blood explode in their veins.

And the Darkspawn were in full rout, fleeing the deaths that waited whosoever faced the Warden and his allies. The Archdemon was calling them, she knew. He was bringing them to him for a final defense. If Riordan had succeeded in injuring it, if it was vulnerable. She feared that Riordan would indeed strike that final blow, that her Ritual would be all for not.

She feared that the soul would not go to the child, that the plans she and her mother had laid would be all for nothing. And she felt a pang of regret when she thought that. It wasn't fair. It was selfish. She realized that she cared for more, for the Warden, that his heartbreak would be for nothing if Riordan died instead of him.

He deserved the victory, at least. He deserved so much more and she wanted to tell him that, tell him that he deserved more than her. She wished so badly that he had sought the girl instead of her. That he had confessed his love to Leliana, so that she might return it.

She wished that she had never accepted him into her bed, had not relented that night. She wished that she had tried harder to push him away.

But she could not. She wanted to keep that night close to her heart, keep the memory of it forever. She wanted to see him smile as he had, she wanted him to be happy.

She wanted to look beside her at night and see that he was still watching her. She wanted his arms around her once again, making her feel like she never had before. She wanted to feel… _special_.

She didn't want another lifetime of cold Wilds and cruelty and hardship. She didn't want to imagine herself as a person of import, showered with riches like she had used to. She didn't want to be alone. And she didn't want to be without him.

But she reminded herself that it _had_ to be this way, that there was no other way it could end up, that it was either this or death.

And she would do whatever it took to save his life and hope that he one day realized it.

And then they were storming up the steps to Fort Drakon. Lance regarded Riordan's crushed body with the same indifference he had for the rest of the world. The Archdemon cried out from atop the fort.

And as Lance topped the massive stone steps to the fort's gate, the great doors opened.

And an army of Darkspawn greeted them, arrows flying out wildly to stop them.

And Lance fell back, a number of shafts jutting out from his armor.


	64. Storming the Castle

He stumbled, recoiling from the arrows hitting him. Alistair took one to the shoulder, right between the plates of his shiny new royal armor. Blood dripped down his arm.

Lance looked okay, though. He reached up with his sword, shattered the shafts of the arrows protruding from his chest. The arrowheads were lodged in the armor, and he was safe. The dragonscale had served its purpose.

He was up almost immediately, sword pointed at the enemy.

The Darkspawn howled, enraged that he was still standing. And soon he was the only one standing.

Morrigan summoned her magic, shattered the enemy even as he rended them. The Darkspawn fled back into the fort, regrouping or hiding from him. He wanted to chase after them, to cut them down.

Morrigan held him back.

Alistair was wounded, and she tended to him as best she could given the circumstances. She was no healer, but she did have healing magic. It would leave a rough scar but Alistair wasn't concerned.

Lance charged ahead of them, letting them trail behind as Alistair struggled to get his armor attached right. Morrigan called for him, urged him to slow down lest he walk right into a Darkspawn ambush.

He didn't listen. She couldn't quite tell if he was just eager to kill the Archdemon and leave this behind, or if he truly did prefer walking into an ambush. The Darkspawn shrank from him regardless, much to his irritation. The battle outside was raging.

The Blight consisted of countless numbers of Darkspawn, and the group currently attacking the city was but a fraction of the whole. Oghren led the defense of the gate as the rest of the Blight tried to burst through. He, Wynne, Leliana, Zevran, Shale and Ajax held back the tide, inspiring the other soldiers to victory.

The army of the Dwarves was marching through the docks, pushing the Darkspawn back into the harbor or smashing them against the close-in slums. They were experts at both fighting in close quarters and killing Darkspawn. Their commanders led them through the narrow slum alleys, rooting out the beasts from houses and small courtyards. They put them to the axe.

The Legion of the Dead waited in the Deep Roads, having pushed forward a considerable distance while the majority of the Darkspawn were on the surface. They refused to participate in the battle, seeing it as their duty to die under that stone that had birthed them. But they would be waiting for the Darkspawn when they returned, fleeing the carnage on the surface. And as the Legion began assembling its ranks before the entrances to the surface, they hefted their axes in unison and began to chant one of their many war songs.

The Dalish Elves, at least those Zathrian's clan could find, were already assembled on the roofs of several buildings throughout Denerim, firing their bows with expert precision at the Darkspawn, singling out their leaders and their mages.

Twice the Darkspawn attempted to surge their ranks, only to be cut down with withering arrow fire before they could reach the buildings. The men of Redcliffe, reinforced with what soldiers Teagan was able to gather from the other banns, held the parts of the city they could, accepting the Darkspawn rushes against their shields and slaughtering them in turn.

Casualties mounted and many of the wounded had to be put down due to Darkspawn corruption.

The Archdemon himself soared over the battle, commanding his troops from the front. Or had until Riordan slashed one wing to useless tatters – his dying action.

Now the Archdemon roared and howled on the top of Fort Drakon, giving his telepathic orders to the rest of the Blight.

_Come to me. Come to me._

And as Lance pulled his sword from the chest of another howling Genlock, he said, "I'm coming."

He could feel the Archdemon, hear it clearly. He was also aware of the rest of the Blight, though it felt quite numb to him, distant. He felt it like a throbbing pulse, a sort of sensation. He could feel it moving, writhing. The whole of the Blight was now surging to the city, millions of Darkspawn come to aid there commander.

Because above it all, Lance could feel that Urthemiel was afraid. Wounded, made vulnerable at the top of the tower, with the only two beings capable of killing it slashing their way through his army to him. The tower was full of Darkspawn, and they all fled, desperate to aid their master but too fearful of the Wardens to throw their lives away.

And then Urthemiel gave another urge, another command. He willed the Darkspawn into action, ordered them forward.

Doors opened, hallways filled. The Darkspawn rushed out, meeting the Wardens in the fort's mess hall.

Lance was slashing all about him, separated from his two companions. Morrigan slapped with her staff, breaking any Darkspawn that neared her. She spat magic at them, burned and froze and electrocuted. Alistair was near her, his sword slashing into whatever Darkspawn he could reach.

She saw that Lance was surrounded, feared that he might die. She wanted to aid him, to use her magic but she could not.

And then she saw her greatest fears come alive.

A Darkspawn sword, a curved wicked thing, slashed against his throat.

He didn't cry out. He instead gagged, a liquid noise that made her body go cold. He lashed out the Hurlock with his sword, sending the point deep into its chest.

He reached up for his throat, tried to staunch the flow of bled. He fell to his knee, struggled to keep from falling entirely.

She cast the strongest spell she knew, a force field. He was made immobile, his entire body stopped. Even the blood from his throat stopped dripping. He was also safe from any harm, the Darkspawn unable to touch him.

Then she summoned an inferno, a blaze that swirled around the mess hall, burned the Darkspawn. They tried to flee, but were set ablaze even as they stumbled shrieking away. Morrigan was at Lance's side immediately. The force field vanished, leaving him clutching his neck in an effort to keep himself alive.

She reached out, her hand glowing with a healing spell. He slapped her hand away. He reached behind him, into his pack, and removed a health poultice.

"I can heal you," said Morrigan. "The poultice will only do so much."

He glared at her. She thought he might have tried to speak, but the blood seeping from his throat merely bubbled. He shoved the tip of the poultice to his throat and squeezed, smearing the gel all over himself.

It worked almost instantly, sealing the wound behind a hard red shell. It wouldn't be perfect, and it would leave quite a scar, but it was enough for now.

Lance stood.

She wanted to hit him, to slap sense into him. But she knew it wasn't her right. She had made him this way. And though she longed to spend hours explaining it to him, she had no time. They needed to get to the top of the tower, and now.

Lance looked over at the stairs, just a few feet away from them. The Darkspawn were again hiding from them, preparing for reinforcements to try and overwhelm the Wardens. He struggled to stand, and his wound pained him still. He stumbled to the stairs.

Morrigan knew he was not in the best condition. But they would just have to manage.

It was all up to him now.


	65. Archdemon

He pushed open the door, and was greeted by a rush of air.

This was it. The final showdown. The culmination of months of work, the chance to stop the Blight. Countless lives hung in the balance. Do or die. Now or never. Be a Warden.

But all he could think about was _her_.

Damn this creature, damn this world. He only ever wanted her, would have done anything to have her. He would have toppled this tower, killed this monster a hundred times over for her.

And now he was losing her. He was losing her to _it_. He was losing every bit of everything he'd ever loved. He was alone now. He was forever alone now.

And as the Archdemon roared at him, challenged him, he knew that he would kill this thing, kill everything if it only meant that he could have her again.

He would have her, no matter the cost.

And he charged the demon, sword raised. He was going to rip its head off, pull its guts out. He would slay the creature.

But he was on the ground before he ever got the chance to face it, smacked aside like so much garbage. He rolled a distance, stopped only by one stone step on the tower's peak. He stood, feeling himself ache all over but throwing it to the back of his mind.

The Archdemon turned to face him, roaring and growling, spitting plumes of fire. It was larger than the dragons Lance had faced, bigger. It's body was a mess of corded muscles, its tail a thick spiked appendage swaying from side to side.

Fangs jutted from its gaping maw, large and imposing. He had no doubt that the creature could tear him to ribbons with one great snap of its mouth. He had no intention of letting it.

He charged again, and that head swung forward, seeking to slap him aside. He ducked under it, slashed.

He felt Starfang meet flesh, felt the ooze of warm blood.

It was just a flesh wound.

Alistair used this opening to go for the Archdemon's blind spot. He sank his sword into its fat gut. Only for it to use its broken wing to casually smack him aside. He was powerful. And though these Wardens were the only creatures that could kill it, it did not care.

Lance struck again, shearing a flap of meat from its leg.

A clawed hand tried to smash him, and he dodged at the last minute. The stone where he'd stood was pulverized, turned into dust. Lance slashed at its mouth, managed to slice clean through one of its thick fangs.

It howled at that, and used a flap of its wings to knock down its attackers. And then it managed what little flight it could, beating its wings to give it lift.

It howled, screamed, summoned all the Darkspawn in the city to the tower.

It would be mere minutes before they were swimming in the bastards. That would make killing this thing that much harder.

Lance and Alistair rushed it together, as Morrigan shot a fireball at it. They grabbed onto its tail as it rose off of the tower. It didn't have enough strength to give itself flight with a broken wing and carry two fully armored warriors.

They gripped their swords tightly, stabbed it as it listed to the side. The Archdemon landed a few feet from where it had risen, smashing its tail into the stone to rid itself of attackers.

It craned its head, spat noxious fumes. Lance fought the urge to vomit, stood up. It spat purple flames at them, and he and Alistair rolled away.

The stone where the flames touched crumbled, became brittle and breakable.

"Here, monster!" Morrigan called, trying to draw its attention to her. She held her staff high, called for a lightning bolt to slam into its snout. It shrugged it off, making a noise similar to a sneeze. Lance and Alistair split up, ran in different directions.

Lance tried to stay on its flank, knew that Starfang would be more than able to cut it open. The Archdemon didn't take the bait for long.

It beat its wings, sucking in air. Lance was taken off his feet, found himself sliding across the stone towards it.

He used that, let himself be taken. And he pointed his sword right at the beast, let its own attempt at killing him be its end. Starfang slid between its ribs.

Urthemiel called out in pain and rage.

And as it did, the first of its Darkspawn horde came rushing through the door to the tower.

Morrigan saw them, and turned to fight. She cast several spells in quick succession, flames and lightning. Dozens were killed outright. But more and more were coming, unfettered by the deaths of their comrades.

Lance looked up at Urthemiel, saw its rage. It craned its neck to look right at him. And it saw him watching her.

And Urthemiel knew how best to kill the Warden.

It charged forward, through a crowd of its own Darkspawn, stomping them underfoot. And its snout connected with Morrigan, sent her flying a few feet to the ground. And it lorded over her, knowing that the Warden was following, was shouting.

And his Darkspawn flooded around the Warden.

He felt blades pressing against his armor, felt one or two find weak points, find vulnerabilities. He slashed out, trying to clear a path to Morrigan.

A Darkspawn hand grabbed him by the hair, pulled his head back. He slashed the hand off of its arm, kicked back. He tripped, fell on his back.

But before the Darkspawn could capitalize on their advantage he was kicking, slashing punching. He was screaming, he realized.

He was screaming for Morrigan.

Blood entered his mouth, from the wound at his throat. But he kept screaming, kept fighting.

"Morrigan!" he shouted, trying to be heard over the shrieking Darkspawn.

And a light appeared above him, shining through the black cloud of the Darkspawn. And many of the beasts fell around him.

And there was a familiar face, a friendly hand reaching down to him.

Alistair, covered in the blood of slain Darkspawn. And Lance welcomed him, got to his feet.

And he felt his friends back against his, facing the coming tide of Darkspawn.

He cut them down, dozens of them. Sharp teeth, claws, blades. It was a blur of bodies, a mess of darkness. And he killed it.

He chopped and hacked and cut his way through them to Morrigan, to his love, his life. He smashed them, stomped heads. He did whatever it took to get to her. He didn't care about living, not now. Not if she could not live.

And he was suddenly through the crowd, facing Urthemiel in all his dark glory. And Morrigan was held in one of his clawed hands, and he growled.

"Face me," Lance shouted at the creature. "Let her go. Come face me."

And Urthemiel accepted the challenge.

He tossed her aside, well out of reach, well out of the fight. And he lurched forward, eager to snap up and devour the Warden.

But he rolled out of reach. Urthemiel went stumbling into his own Darkspawn, crushing them, making it impossible for them to pass. Alistair was under him, stabbing his sword up into Urthemiel's chest and stomach.

Lance went for that swaying tail, decided that it was too long. He threw one glance at Morrigan, made sure that she still lived. He waved for her to remain in that corner, well out of the battle, where she would not be harmed. And she nodded to him.

Lance held Starfang with both hands, and he brought it down on Urthemiel's tail. The Archdemon shrieked in pain, a large section of its tail now hanging by only a thread of muscle.

Lance chopped again, rended the flesh from its body. Alistair was quick to get out of the Archdemon's way, dodging under claws and talons.

He cut a path through the Darkspawn, rushed to the far side of the tower where he could lure Urthemiel.

And Lance was kicked, sent flying back, landing hard against a stone and feeling his ribs crack. He gasped in pain, the wind knocked right out of him. His eyes filled with tears, vision blurry. He tried to scream, was unable to.

The dragon arched its head, faced him. And it readied another flame burst.

Lance gripped the stone, picked himself up, and he ran as far and fast as he could.

There was something ahead, a great wooden bow. A ballistae. He wouldn't reach it in time, he knew, but it gave him an idea. He leapt, rolled. He took cover behind it, let the wood absorb the blast. And soon the ballistae was a hunk of rotten wood and rusted metal, the flames from the Archdemon's mouth unable to touch him.

He was up then, scanning the tower for the nearest ballistae, found it. And he saw the Archdemon, saw that it knew what he was planning.

And he ran as fast as he could, pumping his arms. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, warning him of his approaching death. He was trying as hard as he could, the ballistae almost in reach.

There was a loud noise as the stone behind him was smashed to dust. And then the Archdemon was coming ever closer, trying to scoop him up in its mouth.

But then Alistair was shouting, and the Archdemon was screaming in pain once more. Lance risked a glance over his shoulder, saw that Alistair was stabbing it, that it had paused in its chase. Then he saw Alistair slapped away, sent tumbling into the crowd of Darkspawn.

He had no time to worry about his friend, his King. He had to kill the Archdemon. If he could do that, then it wouldn't matter anyway.

Lance reached out, gripped its wooden handles and he pushed, turning it to bear. The Archdemon was rapidly approaching, charging now, bleeding all over.

And it opened its mouth wide, eager to accept the Warden. He could feel its hot breath, the sticky strings of saliva that dripped between its great teeth. He could feel the thunderous steps, the rattle of its roar.

And he returned it, a wordless cry of hatred and frustration and hurt. He damned the beast with it, damned it for the Blight, the death and destruction it wrought. He damned it for killing his parents and King Cailan. He damned it for turning a great hero like Loghain Mac Tir into a villain. And he damned it for stealing away his Morrigan.

And he fired, the ballistae sending two great bolts into the Archdemon's neck.

It stumbled, went tumbling end over end. Its stubby tail slapped out, crushed the ballistae even as Lance ran to escape. A massive wooden splinter shot into his leg, making him fall.

He cried out, reached for it. And he saw that the Archdemon lay bleeding. And he knew this was his chance.

He pulled the splinter from his leg, ignored the spurt of blood, the searing white hot pain that shot right into his head. He reached out for Starfang, gripped it tightly.

And he stood over the Archdemon, wobbling from his leg injury.

There was no final exchange of words, no confrontation. He got no understanding from the beast, nor did he get solace.

He plunged the sword into its head.

And then he recoiled from the great blinding flash of light that issued forth, knocking him back. The Darkspawn screamed, broke away, tried to run. He felt himself hit something hard, a wall.

The wound at his neck opened again, and blood spilled onto his chest. He groped for his throat, covered it with his hand. Hot, sticky wetness seeped between his fingers.

Consciousness threatened to leave him.

He blinked and the great blinding flash had dulled some. There were shouts raised all throughout the city, calls of victory. The Darkspawn were fleeing, being run down by soldiers and arrows and magic.

They had won. The Archdemon had fallen.

He looked up, feeling sleepy now. He was still alive, and the Archdemon was dead. Morrigan's Ritual must have worked then. For all the good that did him.

And he saw her, standing. She passed near him, reached for the door to enter the fort.

She looked down at him. Her eyes were filled with longing, desire. She stared at him for several minutes. She wet her lips, trying to make a decision.

Lance offered her the best smile he could, hand still clenched to his neck. He offered his free hand, reached out, hoping to touch her one more time, even if it was the last time.

And she turned away, pushed open the door and stepped out of his life, intending for it to be forever.

And his eyes closed shut, the world escaping him.


	66. Coronation

The city of Denerim survived yet another night.

The morning was filled with laughter and celebration. The armies convened for one last time, a mess of songs and dance and cheering. People, nobles, returned to the city, to honor their King.

Alistair walked with Anora, up the stone steps to his throne where a priest waited to make his rule official. The room was packed with nobles, their friends, and whatever people could fit inside. The city outside was packed with thousands of cheering men, women and children.

Alistair reached out to hold Anora's hand, his wife's hand. She slapped it away.

The priest said the words, prayed for the Maker to turn His gaze on their marriage and their rule. And then she pronounced to the crowd the Alistair was now King of Ferelden, and that was met with much applause.

He stood and faced his subjects, raising his hands to their cheers.

"Thank you, thank you!" he shouted above the din. He smiled wide, looking like a real king. He reached out, pointed to where Lance stood. "The man of the hour! The fifth Warden to end the Blight! Hero of Ferelden, Lance Cousland!"

And Lance stepped away from Fergus, who wore a thick bandage over his head. Lance was wearing the nicest vestments that could be dug up for him, though underneath he was a mess of bandages. He walked with a slight limp, just noticeable enough to cause him pain.

There was a new scar at his throat, white and puckered. It was the parting gift of a Hurlock, and had been made all the nastier by the application of a poultice as opposed to healing magic. It hadn't done much to heal his voice, though, and that was a wound far more noticeable.

Most of the people there thought it was something of a trophy, the sign of a real hero.

He topped the steps uneasily, the applause making him even more nervous.

"I will gift him with a boon," Alistair announced. "Given from the crown! What say you, my friend? What would you ask for?"

Lance turned to regard the crowd, feeling quite awkward. There were so many smiling faces, so many happy people.

He could see Oghren standing there, smiling from behind a large mug of grain ale. He had been made a general in the army, thanks to his showing at the Denerim gates. Leliana was wearing her nicest Chantry robes, smiling and looking as radiant as ever. She intended to go after Marjolaine, to settle their problems. She had asked for Lance to go with her, but he answered simply that he could not.

Wynne was dressed in her mage's finery, having decided to go with Shale north to the Tivinter Imperium to see what the mages there could do to restore Shale's mortality.

Zevran looked content, though he could not decide between staying to serve Alistair as an assassin and going to end his bad blood with the Crows.

The crowd hushed, ceased its applause and cheering to listen to what Lance had to say. He felt himself begin to sweat with so many eyes upon him. This was not what he wanted.

He cleared his throat, swallowed hard.

What could he ask for? What was in the crown's power to offer him? Nothing. Nothing that he truly wanted.

Riches and titles were fleeting. The nobility was fickle, and was more than willing to turn on their champion when it suited them.

No.

This entire world, the entirety of it, was rotten, mirthless, worth nothing. There wasn't anything Alistair could now give him that he would want. What he wanted, the only thing he would ever want, was somewhere out there, running from him.

So when he spoke, with the gravelly, hoarse voice left to him after the battle, he spoke with the raw bitterness, the irony, that sense of loss that he carried with every step.

"There is nothing I want."

And he stepped down, limping visibly. He tried not to show the pain of every labored step, to appear as stoic as he could. There was scattered applause throughout the crowd; his friends stepped forward to accept him into their company.

And he pushed past them all, headed for the doors to the great chamber.

The Palace Guard opened them as he approached, exposing him to the screaming crowd outside. Many pointed and cheered. Some women were on their knees crying. He'd already received a few offers, mostly from nobles who wanted their daughters attached to someone of import.

A defensive cordon formed around him as he stepped into the crowd. There was to be a parade in his honor.

He hated every second of it.

In time the Grey Wardens of Ferelden would need to be restored. Howe's lands would be taken, and Amaranthine would be made the headquarters of the Wardens in Ferelden. Lance would be made their commander. He knew that it wouldn't last for him. He had to find the only person left that he cared for, the only one that cared for him. He had to find her.

And there a came a night when he was sure she was thinking about him – somewhere – and she felt sadness and regret for what she had done. But the ring would tell no more.

So he removed it from his finger and slipped it gingerly into his pocket.


End file.
